Copy and Paste Book 1 Part 1 Trailer Link

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Copy and Paste Book 1 Part 1 Prologue Link

https://youtu.be/S12iv3pv_Ko

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Angel and Grace Enter the WR: Papers
Angel and Grace evanesced in the middle of a dusty makeshift marketplace in a small glade of trodden grass. The field spilled off the side of a well-worn road that was once pavement but was now crumbling back into the dirt. There were temporary stalls where people sold their wares—clothing, food, a few animals whose ropes their owners held to keep them from their freedom.

People were shuffling about, haggling and bargaining, and an armed group of men and women were discussing the next phase of their travels just a few feet from where Angel and Grace now stood trying to get their bearings. Men, women, and a few hungry-looking children filled several wagons just behind the group.

The group consisted of three women and two men who wore leather vests over layers of light coloured dusty clothing easily removed or added depending on the weather. Their wide-brimmed hats were pulled low shielding the sun from their eyes and their eyes from the sun. It was obvious that they had been on the road for some time, all in need of a wash, but they looked strong and fit, unlike the people who crowded the wagons. Before they had a chance to make sense of where they’d entered, Angel and Grace were noticed by the group, standing out as bright and shiny as they were.

“Where are your papers?” the woman with the thick scar along her left jaw asked them gruffly, looking them up and down, a slight mocking in her expression. Angel and Grace looked at each other in confusion. They had not been prepared for this question.

Do you know what that means? Angel sent down their thread, concern flooding his brown face.

No, and I think this is not good, Angel, Grace sent back.

Then Grace answered aloud, “we don't have papers. Where can we get them?” Her answer was met with a laugh from the woman followed by the laughter of her company.

“No Papers? Where can you get some? Ha! Everyone needs Papers here, girl. Birth Papers, Working Papers, Citizenship Papers. Otherwise how do we know that you exist? Where you belong and to whom?” She moved closer and eyed Grace closely, close enough for Grace to have to fight the urge to recoil from her acrid breath.

“Where are you from, girl,” she drawled, “the woods somewhere? No, let me guess, World's End!” She spat then, brown liquid the combination of saliva and the chew she had stuffed in her bottom lip, and a chorus of laughter erupted from the group.

Who are these people? Grace thought, looking toward the people in the wagons who diverted their eyes from Grace’s imploring gaze. She hadn’t noticed the shackles that circled their wrists before, she hadn’t noticed the guns slung across their inquisitors' hips, and the reality crept into her, hunched and dark. These were the Slavers Hector told them to avoid at all costs. And they were here, at their mercy, and no papers. She felt Angel tremble through their thread as he realised at that moment, the very same thing.

“Well, well. Get them corralled with the others, then. They’re fair game! No one owns them, and they do not own themselves, so here we are with a boon! We will get a fine price for these two. They look fit and healthy. Maybe not that bright, though,” she ridiculed. Then an idea overcame her weathered face: “you’re from the East, aren’t you?! Strangers!” Then her expression turned cold, the laughter left her face as she took a step back.

“Stupid, pathetic, backward people,” she spat, then added: “but you will still fetch a good price. Strong backs and all. Look at you, all fancy and clean. Well, you’re in the Wild West now,” she jeered.

When the Slavers in the woman’s company grabbed them, shackled them, and shoved them into the carts, Angel and Grace did not fight, not yet. They knew they would only get themselves killed or separated. They would bide their time, feel into the right moment to do just the right thing. But oh, how this was a most difficult path, a most difficult path, indeed.

Together, hands bound, bumping shoulder to shoulder in the rocking cart, they made their way down the dusty road toward the muted orange of the setting sun, the sun that curtsied and bowed to the coming night. They looked up, past the downcast eyes of their new companions, ahead to their next destination, one they recognised as The Gates of Suffering.

We will pass through, my Angel, she sent.

We will pass through, my Grace, he answered.
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In writing this series, I don’t want to orate or evangelize a better world or how we should live, but tell a collective story with compassion, insight, and grace. Although Veil’s Edge reflects on our current society, it is not a story of how we should be–it’s a story of what we could be. The meaning code of my work is embedded in the metaphor and in the mythology that resides in every one of our stories. This story is not a forced bitter pill but an enlivening ember of possibility.

So, the books begin with the universal truth that we need connection to not only survive but also to thrive. We code/flatline/die when we pull the plug of our connection. Many an epic masterpiece of literature and film have explored what our future could hold if we continue to be asleep to the ways in which we are living and operating, what an Apocalypse might look like. But Veil’s Edge is not Dystopian. Nor is it Utopian. It is a fantastical journey more real than our current reality: it explores first chaos, then integration, first death, then resurrection–a society, a world, on the cusp of a Renaissance.

The series will not nor is it intended to leave you trying to revive the world with one drop of water in a desolate wasteland, but to reveal the entire ocean in that one single drop that can nourish us fully at any time. It moves on from awareness, from watching the train wreck, to actually stopping the train. And once the train has stopped, we can see that we have always had the opportunity to arrive.

Storytelling is one way for us to reconnect to self, others, the earth, and the universe. Not by regurgitating or fixating on the past, but by witnessing it, receiving it, with the intent to recreate our reality with meaning and wisdom, by re-membering, retelling, and reinventing.

These books are an invitation to break out of the trance of our current Matrix and become entranced with a possible New World through the shared experience of the story, the resonance and frequency of the spoken word, the electricity of the intention we plug into.

So, I humbly but with great enthusiasm invite you to enter the world of Veil’s Edge with me! Let us gather around the fire.
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Download Instructions
Here is my best attempt to assist with your download and opening the file(s):
The audiobooks are played through the player here on the site. Super easy!
For eBooks, simply click where it says "Download eBook", and the download should begin automatically. You will only be able to access the books that you have purchased and in the format you have purchased them.
To have the eBook open in your reader, simply click the file once downloaded, and it should open in the program you have set as default to open ePub files on your device. If you would like to open the eBook in your Kindle, use these links for Canada and the US.
https://www.amazon.ca/sendtokindle/
https://www.amazon.com/sendtokindle/
If you are in another country, I think you would just change the .com in the URL (web address) for the corresponding suffix for your country. If you need more assistance, there is a plethora of information on the internet.
OK! I hope you're all set!
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Daring to Be Divine
Later alone in bed, Camaria’s Mind churned as she contemplated the wildman’s rantings, as she did so every day for some time, attempting to comprehend their meaning and their origins. For the beliefs he yelled with such conviction were entirely foreign to her Knowing. From what Camaria understood, what they in the Western Realm called God was their attempt to explain their existence, their purpose for living, and their codes of evolvement and of conduct.

Yet, their interpretation played out with distortion, pushing them further from their Truth instead of deeper. They were painfully disconnected from their Divinity, which was the reason for their deep, relentless, and unyielding suffering. And it saddened her.

What they simply didn’t know, what caused all of their greatest wars, conflicts, fear, hate, and suffering, was that they had forgotten themselves, forgotten that they are not only part of The One but needed in its creation. They were not loved by a personified God—a being choosing to bestow benevolence on the deserving—but created from the very substrate and through the very act of Love itself. They did not comprehend that they are the expression, the result, the children of Love.

And the meaning? Camaria knew that the wildman’s ravings were plainly overly complicated misunderstandings the mind can make of simple Truths. Camaria felt great compassion, for the questions they asked were sincere, and the lack of answers squeezed them in a tight grip of suffering and anguish.

You are not divine
You are not needed
You are inherently flawed
You are bad
You will be punished
You are tolerated as long as you are good
Love has conditions
You are not deserving
Love can be taken away
Lovelessness is a sentence of death

It was without sense to punish what you, yourself, created, what was in fact a fractal of yourself, as if God were a scolding, judging parent.

The Truth was that what they called God was simply Love, and their meaning lay in their involvement in that Love—Love and Meaning together being the source and the force of all life.

And Camaria knew the Truth, passed down to her throughout her life in word, in action, in vibration, in silence, in the loving exchange with her community, her elders, in the way they lived simply and simply lived.

You are divine
You are needed
You are inherently perfect and whole
You are both light and dark
You will be positioned for your own unfoldment
You are loved
Love has no conditions
You are deserving
Love can not be taken away
Neither can your existence

It was that simple.

Yes, it was that simple.

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Mending
When the children were 12, they had their first sharp pang of brokenness.

Early one bright morning, Camaria led their little trio through the paths toward the creek. There they’d planned to check on the fort they’d built in the dappled light beneath the edge of trees near the creek bed. Finding everything intact—the stick walls were still stacked and the vines they’d used to bind them were still holding, the wind chimes Kilo had strung to ward off the bears and big cats continued to tinkle their notations of human presence, the box of poems Shiraz had buried in the shelter’s earth floor continued to preserve the Universe’s secrets—they began their day’s work/creation/play.

They made a great stack of giant ____ leaves in preparation to finish the roof, and about an hour into their gathering and stacking, they decided to stop for a break and to drink from the glistening creek.

“Oh my, how the creek burbles today,” Shiraz sighed as they stripped their outer clothes and discarded them near the fort. “It’s so cool and clear. Ah! And cold,” she shrieked when she stepped into the water after casting off her shoes. “The rocks are sharp but slick beneath my feet. Poking but slimy. How can it be all of that at once?” she marvelled, curling her toes over the stones.

Kilo thought similar thoughts and joined his sister on the water’s edge but did not need to say anything except to exclaim a shriek of his own once the stream lapped over his toes. All three children laughed, and Shiraz threw her arms open and her head back to take in the sun.

“Sun, you light the whole sky! Thank you for your Love! I bask in the shower of your rays,” Shiraz crowed then mumbled to herself as she dropped her arms back to her side: “do rays shower? Is the word ‘shower’?” as she tapped the side of her mouth with a finger.

Camaria joined the golden twins on the creek bed but squatted to cup the cool water and drink it from the cradle of her hands, some of which Kilo noticed escaped down the sides of her mouth. Giving in to the temptation, Camaria then cupped a larger scoop and washed her face, smiling at Kilo when she’d finished, fresh and bright eyed, feeling his gaze upon her.

Shiraz continued down the creek bed, a few inches deeper into the stream now, and just as Kilo was marvelling at how the light struck Camaria’s chocolate curls to bring out just the right amount of amber, Shiraz cried out as she slipped on the rocks, tripping on her skirts, and landing with a splash—hands not quite fast enough to save her from the fall or her forehead from cracking on the rockbed.

Instantly wild with fear at the bloom of blood in the water beneath Shiraz’s head, Kilo quickly scrambled over the rocks to reach her side.

“Shiraz! Are you ok?!” Kilo exclaimed as he helped her up and moved them toward the shore where Camaria held out her hands to receive her.

“I’m ok, brother, it feels like only a small tear,” Shiraz said, slightly dazed but coherent, as she held her hand to her head. “It hurts like ______, but I’m ok,” she assured him as a trickle of blood escaped through her fingers.

When Shiraz was safe in Camaria’s grip, Kilo himself slipped, landing heavily on his shoulder, bellowing, voice cracking.

“Kilo!” Shiraz exclaimed, reaching with her free hand but failing to save him from his fall. Leaving Shiraz safely on the dry earth for a moment, Camaria rushed to Kilo who was already beginning to stand, holding his arm.

“Kilo, your arm!” Shiraz exclaimed, eyes widening, rushing to meet him, taking in the odd way it hung from his shoulder.

“I think it is his collar bone,” Camaria said as she began her initial examination.

“How do you know that?” Shiraz nearly shrieked as she grasped her brother’s good shoulder.

“Shiraz, don’t panic,” Kilo said, placing his hand over hers, attempting stoicism although his nose crunched up and his eyes squinted shut as he winced with pain. “You know that she has been studying with _______.”

“I am prepared,” Camaria confirmed and assured. “Let me,” she said to Shiraz, gently loosening Shiraz’s grip on Kilo’s good arm.

“Ok,” Shiraz breathed, calming herself. “Ok. Camaria, please help him,” she pleaded.

The pain was blinding, taking over every one of Kilo’s senses. Hair dripping with water, Kilo started to sway, knees buckling, his body giving in to shock.

“Kilo, sit,” Camaria directed, gently, firmly, immediately taking charge as she led him to lie (lay?) gently on the ground. For some minutes, Kilo moved in and out of consciousness, and nausea gripped him with its incessant churning. He tried to be composed, but the traitorous tears pricked at his eyes anyway.

Camaria took a moment to look at Shiraz’ s head, into her eyes for any sign of concussion, and to have her sit, as well, then returned her attention to Kilo.

“Focus on me, Kilo,” Camaria said with a level tenderness as she hovered over him, kneeling, adjusting his body, making him comfortable as she further assessed his injuries. Shiraz knelt on his other side, noticing the deftness of Camaria’s hands as she tended to her brother.

“Can you take off this shirt?” Camaria asked, touching the fabric, pausing for his answer.

“I don’t think so,” Kilo gasped, wince deepening. “It hurts,” he couldn’t help but add, tears pricking again.

“I will undo it, then,” Camaria said, soothing him with her assuredness. “I should be able to see enough without having to sit you up.”

Camaria proceeded to unbutton Kilo’s loose cotton shirt, opening it widely to expose his battered shoulder, flesh already purpling at the break in his collar bone. Kilo’s surroundings blurred as his focus zeroed in on Camaria’s face—calm, yet intent, grounded, concerned, confident.

“Look at me, Kilo,” Camaria directed, but Kilo didn’t need to be told to do so—her beautiful face was the only place he ever wanted to look. “Breathe,” she whispered, and he obeyed. “Shiraz is ok,” Camaria said as she gestured with a tilt of her head across his body to where Shiraz was holding her sleeve to her forehead, for once speechless.

Kilo lay on the rich earth for many minutes as Camaria told him to breathe. With every utterance of the word from her lips, he rhythmically inhaled and exhaled her lovely breath, let it soothe him, heal him, one of many moments he would experience with her suspended in a state of timelessness. She stroked his forehead, each touch plunging him deeper into their golden bond. With lips slightly parted, Kilo softly closed his pinwheel hazel eyes.

When he was finally able to sit up with the girls’ gentle assistance, Camaria talked him through her mendings, explaining as she wrapped and patched. But Kilo was hardly listening as he watched her lips move, the slender muscles beneath the golden olive skin of her shoulders where her sleeveless shirt failed to cover, falling into her dark eyes every time she lifted them to meet his gaze. Her actions were swift and precise, yet always careful as she tended to her friends, both twins gratefully accepting her acts of Love.

Camaria rose for a moment to fetch her outer shirt which was dry and discarded near the fort. She tore it into strips to bandage Shiraz’s head and to create a sling to cradle Kilo’s arm.

For me, Kilo marvelled as Camaria ripped her favourite shirt without a second thought—that was for me.

“Oooooh, what an adventure!” Shiraz announced, breaking the enchantment. “What shall tomorrow bring?!” she said, hair sticking out from the makeshift bandage, coaxing a laugh from all of the children and a small wince from Kilo with the movement of his body.

Indeed, yes, they had an enchanted childhood, even with and especially because of the pain and the breaking, and of course, of course, the mending.

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The Turtle and the Squirrel
Camaria didn’t return to the Zen Garden for 2 days—she’d spent the whole time in her studio sipping tea from her new set, her fresh paints saturating her soul, seeping through her hands with a flood of stories. Atticus and the young lovers. Wukang and both his lost family and his found treasures. Her parents in Veil’s Edge, and of course the end of the world which she skirted and came back from to tell the tales through her brushes. The rocky river crossing, the shimmering lake, the curious shop in the tiny glen, the booties and the old woman who spun them, the yarns, the threads that connected them all, connected it all.

Camaria could only carry a few paintings in her hands without a cart, so she opted to lead a horse she’d borrowed from her neighbours to pull one she had piled with the carefully wrapped pieces she’d created since her visit with Wukang. She hadn’t taken much time to break from her creations, and Kage didn’t much notice being in his office much of the time. Camaria would coax him from his distractions when she returned home. She would prepare them both a lovely supper with the quick and early greens she had collected from the garden that morning.

Camaria led the horse and cart through the fields, the Checkpoint, and the streets of Slumber City. No one bothered her since her cargo was considered worthless to the untrained eye, most people blind to its value. Zen heard the wheels of the cart rumbling along the cobblestone street. When she spied Camaria unloading her packages as she opened the door a crack to investigate, she took a rare few steps into the outside to help.

They brought the paintings one by one into the cavernous front room, the space looking more and more like a gallery every time Camaria visited. Zen took some time to look at each of them where they were temporarily propped along the walls once unwrapped.

“Oh Camaria,” Zen breathed as she took in the first painting, “oh my,” she approved of the second, “oh my,” she complimented the third, until one of the paintings made her stop mid breath, suspended in a flood of memory and instant sorrow.

“Oh,” was all that escaped her, an exhale of a sound pressed forth by the ache in her heart, her hands running over the caramel painted cheeks despite knowing that one should not touch the face of a painting.

Each brush stroke told the Truth and their story, their very beginnings, so young and unscathed, before even the son they’d treasured then lost for a reason Zen could still not fathom, a loss she still could not reconcile. The weight of guilt and grief fought to overshadow the beauty of the piece, yet, yet still, the blossoms of Love bloomed there anyway painted in the delicate china skin of the pot and cups.

In the piece, the two of them enjoyed laughter and tea, the woman shy, the man imploring, newly in Love, deep in reverent practice, of the ceremony, of the stillness, of the presence between them. Off to the side, the quick squirrel in motion placed food at the wide stone steps, the slow and ancient turtle hid in its shell beneath the cherry trees.

It was both an invitation and a confession. It is me, I am he.

It was you, it is you—who has fed me all this time. You never stopped….

Loving you.

Loving me.

No, I have never stopped.

I have stopped. Not loving you. That could never be. But I have stopped.

Loving you?

Just stopped.

On the heels of Zen’s promise to tell the story she had yet to fully share, Camaria left after long hugs to return to her own Beloved. Zen sat in the cool and dark shell for some time, waiting to poke her head out when the time came. After the scuffling of both goods and feet as he arranged his gifts on the stone steps outside faded, Zen gave him a few seconds to think he had escaped unnoticed. She opened the door just a crack in time to see his lithe and lovely form quickly disappearing through the buildings.

“Wukang,” she whispered, lips trembling, an unexpected well of tears falling from her eyes.

Wukang, my Love. She couldn’t help but send into the pit of darkness.

Zen, my Zen, came a faint whisper back through the tangled and knotted thread. She felt him pause, turn, hesitate.

Not yet, not yet, but maybe soon.

I will wait, straddling all worlds. For an eternity, for you, he sent back, but wasn’t sure he wanted to keep that promise, the waiting part. He wanted to go to her. To gather her up. To take her Home. Now.

Wukang’s return to the South was a reluctant retreat—his desire to seize and hold her, to break her free, and her desire to be left alone, to be given more time, warred within him in a battle so great that his face worked with the effort to keep it inside, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. In the end, he decided to trust and respect, so he walked away for now, with the intent to return again and again, day after day, watching with keen, smoky hazel eyes for signs of Zen’s re-emergence.

Seeing the Divine in others is one thing, seeing it in yourself is quite another. But somehow, somehow seeing it in others allows one to see glimmers of it in themself. Oh, and this man, he was Divine. He was perfect. And he was waiting for her.

Zen’s eyes fell heavy from the painting to the cold floor of the gallery as she gently silenced the connection. She was not yet able to see how the story could go, only how it had been. She did not deserve him.

But still, a hint of gold, of red, brightened the grey spots within her, tickled the underside of her ribs with the faintest flutter of wings.
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The Zen
With Kage off at the building site of their country house, and with the streets settling somethat from the uproar of the previous week, Camaria ventured out into the core of Slumber City seeking the Zen she’d hoped to encounter in the place that shared its name.

The building before her was similar to most buildings in the Downtown District—crumbling concrete and chipped red brick—but this building in particular stood slightly shorter, an unassuming one-storey cloaked amidst 3 and 4 storey warehouses and dilapidated apartment complexes, half of which were empty. Remnants of the intricate architecture of the previous Renaissance were almost entirely erased from almost all of the buildings in the district, cemented over with stony facades. But as Camaria passed, she could see through the masks that clung to the structures and into the warmth of the dwellers who once made them their homes, to the excitement of the builders as they crafted their visions. When she put her hand to their walls, she could also feel their emptiness: now skeleton casings without the soft bits, without the souls.

She had passed the lines of people waiting for Provisions on 3rd, the row of diners that served The Establishment, The Organizations, The Enforcers, and other upper crust on 5th, then turned down a side street near where she had tended to the injured wildman a few weeks before. When she couldn't tune into his whereabouts, feeling the absence of his ranting as she passed through the streets, she thought about how he might be faring and wished him well.

Once through the lane, she passed through the Carnival District where the dun buildings were lipsticked with fading tapestries and cheap fairy lights—a slipshod attempt at the illusion of magic, but effective all the same. She smiled and nodded at the motley crew of people peddling and haggling, but carried on steadily. She turned down a second lane at the end of the street which ushered her out into an empty street eerily quiet in contrast to the din she’d just escaped. Camaria looked up and down the street, then crossed. A light breeze whispered in her ears, blew a few of her curls into her eyes and some litter down the street, but there was no other sound, not even the city’s scavenging pigeons.

Camaria had passed the building many times in her wanderings but always had other matters to attend to. Today, however, that word, Zen, it drew her to that very place, at that very occasion. She took a few moments to inspect the building from the sidewalk and looked up to its flat top. Twin wide-mouthed, gargoyles squatted atop each of the front corners, horns pointed skyward, mouths wide in laughter. Or was it warning? Camaria felt it was both.

The large entry door was the only wooden component (element?) in the entire city block. It was a rich mahogany brown, and despite its obvious age, it was well cared for, its hinges well-oiled. There were a few small markings on the stone beside the door which were partially hidden by the only greenery Camaria had seen in all her months in the city. She moved some of the Ivy away to read the words etched there: The Zen. She pushed down the latch, and the door glided open without even a groan.

Camaria stepped into the grand, windowless, cavernous space which to her surprise was as virtually empty as the street. In the gloom, she could see a few pieces of art hanging in random places on the walls. A few display pillars stood lonely and meaningless—no sculptures or arrangements to give them a purpose. The space reminded her of the music Aria drew with her bow from the belly of her cello—the longing, the sadness, the beauty yearning to be expressed—it was clean but wanting, waiting for something to fill it.

Camaria let go of the door behind her, and it closed with a soft click. The space was still and quiet as a tomb. It was then that her eyes were drawn to the only source of light in the room which shyly filtered in from a crack beneath the exit—the back door the same style and shape as the entry, only smaller.

She crossed the cavern, went out the door into the courtyard beyond, and was instantly enchanted—a small, bright jewel nestled in the squalor of the city. Birdsong beckoned her forward down a narrow, ivory-pebbled path lined with shrubbery that reached sunward at least a foot taller than her head. Straight before her bowed an arbour through which she could spy the hints of a walled garden, the Zen Garden.

Camaria breathed deeply as she ducked under the arch, which was covered with twisting, flowering clematis vines of red and white, and stepped through. Her senses took her Home, and she kicked off her shoes to walk barefoot on the worn pebbled paths, on the soft, fragrant blades of grass alongside.

A dozen cherry trees grew strong and sturdy in the courtyard, pink blossoms fluttering down from the branches laying the delicate carpet beneath her feet. Chimes tinkled musically from the boughs of the trees. Camaria didn’t realise until she entered this womb how very much she missed the softness.

The woman tending to the plants had her back to Camaria and made no motion to indicate that she had heard or sensed her enter. She was dressed in loose and light powder blue pants and long sleeved shirt and donned a wide-brimmed hat to shield her from the hot summer sun. Her straight black hair was pulled back in a cord binding at the nape of her neck, swept back from the beauty of her waxen moon face. When she stood and lifted her arm to wipe her cheek with the back of a gloved hand, her lovely black eyes spotted Camaria—barefoot, round, heavy belly—and the woman’s delicate crows feet deepened with a smile.

Camaria approached, beckoned by the woman’s welcoming expression, intrigued by her existence there.

“Hello,” Camaria began. “I hope you do not mind me letting myself into your garden.”

“It is not my garden. It is all of ours,” the woman said, still smiling, stretching her back.

“My name is Camaria,” she said, coming closer. “And I come from the…”

“Eastern Realm,” the woman finished.

“Yes. How did you know?” Camaria asked.

“How could I not know?” the woman laughed musically without mocking. “It is splendid to have you wander into this garden.”

“I am happy to have wandered in,” Camaria said as she reached where the woman stood.

“You are very far from home,” the woman stated.

“I am an Envoy, one of the 7. I am here to learn Wisdom.”

“Is wisdom so far from Home?”

“It can be found both at Home and elsewhere, I feel.”

“My name is Zen,” the woman offered, removing her glove and holding out a scarred hand for Camaria to shake, “named for this place I spent 10 years seeking.”

“Then it was not only this place, but you I sought today,” Camaria stated, and Zen contemplated this for a moment, studying Camaria’s affable face.

“I suppose we should get acquainted over tea, then,” Zen invited, smile brightening once again.

“I would like that. Very much,” Camaria accepted, returning the expression.

“As would I, Camaria. It has been some time since I have been blessed with a wanderer.”
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SECTION BREAK
THE PRESENT

It Begins
Camaria woke to the incessant rooster that recently decided to roost nearby. She put her pillow over her head in response, but a muffled laugh escaped her as she imagined him crowing and strutting around the yard.

It was time to get up.

Her dreams were rich and full of colour as usual, as they always had been, and especially sweet since sleeping beside this man, this being who breathed heavily beside her seemingly unperturbed by the rooster’s proud announcements.

She took a moment as she did every morning to look upon his face, to let the well of gratitude overflow—as she once told him, he was truly the stuff of dreams, her dream while awake.

But as she began to slip from the bed, he gently clasped her wrist, his eyes still closed.

“Do you think I could sleep through all of that commotion?”

“I did think so. Briefly.”

“You were restless last night.”

“There was a lot going on—in my DreamScape.”

He left it there as he knew that she would share it with him tonight after she’d had a chance to process it, to turn it into art.

Since most of the kids were now grown, all spread out into new dwellings and adventures, the couple had a lot more time to be alone, and they often woke up tangled with each other. It was, Camaria decided anew each and every morning, in this very place she wanted to reside for the rest of her days. Her days of an Envoy behind her. Her days of a Mother shifting. Her deep capacity for loving—infinite, eternal, essential, expansive.

“I am heading to the breakfast house this morning with Mama. Will you join us?”

“Ah, thank you, but I’ve got to be at the OutPost shortly. I will see you for lunch here at home?”

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be,” Camaria affirmed without a hint of teasing.
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Bones
The girls craned to watch behind them so often that Camaria stopped the wagon and turned them around so they faced where they had come rather than where they were going. She even draped the sling over her chest so little Poppy could watch over her shoulder and relieved Molina of her task of pulling the wagon so that she, too, could turn as often as she liked to watch where the dog was now.
They were not afraid of the dog in any way, as the snarling and snapping had stopped once she was fed, watered, and Free, but they were curious, excited about their new companion, for once Camaria untied the knots around her throat, the mother and children knew she would belong with them from that moment on.
So, they were relieved and excited when the dog followed them out of the Junkyard, a bit concerned when they lost track of her for a few minutes when they passed through the Checkpoint, then were relieved again when she reappeared on the other side of The Fringe, the waving grass in the treeline giving away her position. She was exceedingly shy, tentative at first, but as they neared their Home, the gap between them grew smaller and smaller.
“Will she live with us?” Indigo asked as she bumped along in the wagon.
“That is likely,” Camaria answered as she pulled them along, grateful for the great wheels that allowed for easy movement through the grass.
“She is afraid of us,” Molina observed.
“Yes,” Camaria confirmed.
“Why would she be afraid of us?” Cressida inquired, somewhat confused at the prospect.
“She has not been treated well by people,” Camaria explained.
“Why was she not treated well?” Cressida asked, seeking further clarity.
“That is one question I cannot answer, Lovey,” Camaria said as she remembered the dead pups, feeling the question pressing on her own Heart.
“She is closer now,” Molina reported, pointing to where the dog trotted only roughly 10 meters behind them now.
“She is learning that we can be trusted,” Camaria said with a smile that was both sad and happy (glad).
—----------
Kage saw them coming through the front window having been going back and forth—from the kitchen where he was making supper and the front window where he checked for his girls every few minutes. They were later than anticipated, and…was that a dog? Yes, a dog, Kage confirmed after squinting it into focus, and a mangy one at that, he mused.
Kage shot Camaria a message, and she straightened as she received it.
I was worried, he intoned.
Oh, I am sorry to have worried you. I am tired. Can you come help us? Camaria sent back, the tone weaker, less pointed than Kage’s own.
Remembering himself, Kage hurried out the front door to take Poppy from the sling to carry her with one arm and pulled the wagon with the other, the load abruptly lightening as Indigo and Cressida hopped out.
“Thank you, Kage,” Camaria said and stretched her back. “It has been quite a day.”
“Are you alright?” Kage asked, giving them all a visual once-over.
“Yes. We are fine,” Camaria assured him.
“We have a dog now!” Cressida exclaimed.
“I see that,” Kage said, tempering his wry tone, trying to sound more cheery than he felt.
“Yes, we may have a new Friend,” Camaria asserted.
“That will live right here with us!” Indigo added.
Why didn’t you intone? Kage sent to Camaria.
I am sorry, Kage, there was so much going on that I did not even have space to think. Please be patient. We will tell you the story after I get cleaned up, was her short ‘for now’ answer, and after giving Kage a quick kiss on the cheek, Camaria headed to the washroom.
“You chose a dog?” Kage asked the children who made no moves to follow their mother inside.
“She chose us!” Cressida exclaimed, little cheeks smudged and dirty.
They didn't think to seek his approval, and Kage didn't think it would matter much whether he approved or not. His daughters seemed to be very much enamoured with the dog already who held back on the fringe of the yard, tail low but barely containing a full-on wag. She was looking pretty rough, but Kage could sense a great tenderness in the animal, and in addition, he wholly trusted Camaria’s judgement in matters such as this.
If this dog was there at all, she was meant to be.
All Right, he thought, surrendering before he even put up a fight. For the girls.
—-----------
Of course, Camaria and Kage’s daughters were fascinated by the dog, and the couple had deep compassion and love for her already given the history that was written in the state of her body. Her current situation was fairly obvious, as well, given the events of their meeting, the details of which Camaria and the girls conveyed to Kage as they got ready for supper.
Since none of them wanted to leave the dog alone, they ate outside in the courtyard and made an offering of water and supper for their new Friend at the edge of the courtyard alongside the garden. She seemed to be relaxing more and more, her demeanor unassuming, friendly, gentle, as if she were a different animal entirely than the one who’d snapped and snarled at them in the Junkyard earlier that day.
As they finished their meal, and as the children recounted to their Father the day’s events for at least the 4th time as he held Poppy in his lap, they realised that the dog was not only closer but practically at Kage’s heels.
“Looook,” Cressida said in a loud whisper.
“Come, girl,” Indigo beckoned in a soft high pitch for the dog to leave her Father to sit beside her instead. The dog did not abandon him, however, but waited for…what?
“Pet her, Papa,” Molina prompted.
“Oh, yes,” Kage said and obeyed, reaching around Poppy to give the dog a few pats on her head.
“We can be trusted,” Cressida said, echoing what she’d learned about the word from her mother earlier that very day.
“You smell bad,” Cressida then declared, waving her hand before her face.
“I will fetch a basen!” Molina announced and jumped up from her seat with Indigo and Cressida hot on her heels.
“Get soap, lots of soap,” Kage called after them with a light Heart, and when the girls returned, the dog let the family bathe her in love and bubbles and laughter, awash in the warm light of the setting Sun.
—-----------
She healed remarkably fast in their care as the family aided in her healing through their kindness, receiving from the dog what they felt was much more than they could possibly give. Before even a few weeks had passed, the family couldn’t remember what life had been like without her. Kage had named her Bones on her second day there, and for very good reason.
Bones was an outside dog and stayed in the shelter of one of the sheds at night preferring it that way. And she liked to dig, but the digging was not to bury bones but to excavate then deposit her finds into a pile behind Camaria’s Cradle that the family dubbed The Boneyard.
Kage could only feign indifference to their new companion for a short time before she completely and thoroughly won over his affection. Though Bones loved everyone, she preferred Kage’s company above all. She accompanied him as he went from chore to chore in the yard, abandoned the children no matter what kind of interesting thing they were up to together when Kage emerged from a long day inside his office. She sat with him, explored with him, waited for him when he was away.
When Kage had named her, he thought the name to be simple, clever, a fun reference to her favourited passtime—but in actuality, it was the only name for her, announcing her exact purpose: The Unearther of Bones.
The first time they realised her obsession, Kage had dispatched of some rather unpleasant findings from their yard—a young fawn had been killed by another animal, and its carcass was rotting in their back field. As soon as Kage returned to the yard, shovel in hand, the carcass buried in the back field, Bones trotted up carrying a few of its bones in her mouth, a few ribbons of furred flesh still clinging to the remains.
“Bones, no,” Kage chastised the dog who sat, dropped the ribs from her mouth, wagging her tail and lifting her eyebrows in an expression of anticipation.
“I wanted to bury those bones,” he scolded her, and she tilted her head.
Kage softened. “It must be a lot of work doing all that digging,” he said to her in a tone of understanding. Bones lay down and rested her chin on her ecofact with a sigh as if to agree.
“Ok, girl. I see you’re trying to help. Keep the bones,” and when she felt satisfied he had acknowledged her treasure, she picked them back up, rounded the corner of the shed, and dropped them in her boneyard.
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SECTION BREAK (A Pause, A Breath, Before the Pivot)
BACK TO CAMARIA (ROUND AND ROUND)

Untangling
They would be arriving that evening, so Camaria and Kage were excitedly preparing, the children contributing by way of tasks they could complete given their age and ability. As Camaria, Kage, and Molina made the bed, tidied, dusted, and swept, Indigo and Cressida picked vegetables and herbs from the garden; Poppy placed a new lavender soap bar near each sink, flowers and homemade chocolates on the guestroom’s nighttables at Molina’s instruction.
Kage was a little anxious to see Kalea and Anahata this time, which would be expected. Their clear/clair vision would make anyone with secrets uneasy with the prospect of being found out. But he was also excited, anticipated the bearhugs and warm smiles, neither Kalea nor Anahata concerned with placing any sort of condition on the Love they had/bore/felt for him if he would only receive it, with an openness Kage was still grappling to understand and fully trust.
It was immensely important to Kage that he earned Camaria’s parents’ approval, and this sharply contrasted his need to gain The Viper’s. With Anahata and Kalea, Kage wanted to be more of the man he could be, more of the man he was; with The Viper, Kage pretended to be the only man The Viper would accept. He wanted to please the couple not by way of the coin he amassed or the things he acquired for their Beloveds but by what he provided his family by way of Love. He did want to impress them, but more so to impress upon them the depth of his care. But he was also deeply afraid that he would disappoint them, that he would not be able to live up—not to their expectations but their belief in him, their trust.
So, Kage focused on the cleaning and the preparing, and as he was finishing oiling the hinge of the guest bedroom door, the couple evanesced into the yard, and Kage heard excited voices expressing greetings, felt the whoosh of fragrant summer air climb the stairs as the kitchen door swung open.
“Come in, come in!” Camaria exclaimed.
“Oh my, oh my, oh my, my Loves!” Kalea laughed, and Kage imagined the collision of hugs that had to be ensuing.
“How you have grown, wildlings!” Anahata’s voice rang out, and the girls, yes all of the girls including Molina and their mother, actually squealed as they received them. Anahata must have a babe in arms already, Kage thought, likely Cressida who would usually have it no other way, making herself known until her GrandFather scooped her up. Kage quickly finished, wiped his hands, and bound down the stairs to join them like a boy on Christmas morning.
—---------------------
During a lively supper soundtracked with stories, laughter, and boisterous interruptions, Camaria told her parents about Johanna, Sinead, little Arek, and The Four Winds, and the girls chimed in whenever they wanted to contribute a detail or derail the conversation entirely to follow an adventure of their own or a creation they had made. Kalea and Anahata caught them up on the goings on in Veil’s Edge, and they had more than one moment of silence and the inevitable tears for each of the Loved Ones who had transitioned and for those who grieved their passing.
That evening, as Molina showered and readied for bed in Kage and Camaria’s bathroom, the women ran the younger children through the tub with soap and bubbles and lots of splashing both intentional and unintentional while the men cleaned up the kitchen.
“How is Kilo?” Camaria asked her mother as they finished, drying Poppy off with a white cotton towel. Indigo was dressing in the girls’ bedroom, and Kalea released Cressida to join her sister, just barely having the chance to wrap her in a towel before she wriggled herself free.
“He is well,” Kalea answered, seating herself on the small stool while Camaria brushed Poppy’s wet hair. “He has yet to return to Veil’s Edge, although he has said it is his intention to do so.”
“Yes, there seems to be much purpose for him in the North with his family there,” Camaria said.
“Mm, yes,” mused Kalea at the understatement.
“So many things have transpired since my departure. For everyone,” Camaria said as she finished brushing and re-wrapped Poppy more tightly in her towel.
“As it always does but never ceases to amaze. It was only yesterday your father and I were bathing you and wrapping you in towels just as we are doing with your own babes now,” Kalea said through a smile.
“Do you worry about him?” Kalea then asked.
“Kilo? Yes. We intone often, but he holds many things close to himself.”
“He is well, Love. Not to worry. Perhaps he will share more with you when the time is right.”
“I am certain he will,” Camaria answered. “I am patient.”
“As is he, Love. As is he.”
“Gra-Mama Kalea!” Cressida called from the bedroom. “We are ready for many stories and many songs!”
—-----------
After many stories and many songs, the two couples sat under the stars in the warm air of the courtyard amidst the vines and the blossoms they displayed that opened by day and closed by night. The girls had been tucked into their beds and kissed good-night—all except for Poppy who was not quite ready to be released from her mother’s arms just yet. Kage sat close beside Camaria and Poppy stroking their daughter’s head, taking in the pure fragrance of her delicate wisp of hair as she slept wrapped and cozy.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Kage said after Camaria recounted their encounter with Oberon’s men, still marvelling at how Camaria diffused the ticking bomb, “how she so expertly changed a situation that looked very bad, a situation where only someone’s death looked like the only possible outcome,” he continued, sobering at what could have been. “All I knew was that it wouldn’t be us.”
“It was not any of us,” Camaria added.
“I am very, so very grateful for that,” Kalea expressed.
“And you say they were poisoned?” Anahata asked.
“Drugged, yes,” Camaria answered, shifting Poppy a bit for comfort.
“By their own people?” Anahata asked, clarifying further.
“I wouldn’t call them their people, but The Empire and their Generals: the ones who call the shots and the ones who pull the triggers,” Kage explained.
“Poor lads and those people,” Anahata empathised, shaking his head. “Such a shame.”
“There is a deeper connection…between you and those soldiers,” Kalea began, but before she could formulate the weaving she was perceiving, the Moon dimmed as a dirty white mass clouded its shine, and the four of them looked up. Kage released the breath he was starting to hold, relieved for the change in subject, although this topic would not prove to be any more comfortable.
“What is that?!” Kalea asked, pointing to the haze, sensing its contents, a question which really was a statement seeking to clarify a Knowing. Kage knew the origin as they all did, yet Kalea, Anahata, and Camaria could actually see the streams, the traces, the threads that connected to The Dusters in The Empire’s laboratories.
“Gases,” Camaria confirmed. “The Empire says they release them to control the weather. There have been some extreme storms in the Realm starting with the tsunami that engulfed Sin City several years ago. They tell the people the chemical trails are for their good.”
“They are not,” Anahata said plainly.
“We Know this,” Camaria agreed.
“The energy of the people is creating this extreme weather,” Anahata went on, “their combined and collective energy.”
“The storms within create the storms without,” Kalea finished.
“The Empire thinks it should control such things?” Anahata asked.
“The Empire thinks it should control everything,” Kage stated.
“I remember this,” Anahata said, “from when we extracted Hector at the height of the Conflict of Kingdoms, yet too late for Yara’s parents, only there were other things The Empire was assuming to control.”
“I feel a simultaneous escalation and a more forceful suppression here at present, an instability,” Camaria said. “Not only regarding the weather, the chemical clouds, the human agitation, but in and of the Realm itself.
“It cannot breathe,” Anahata said.
“Or grow,” Kalea added.
“Only implode or explode,” Camaria tried to explain.
“Or die,” Kage found himself interjecting.
“It must be re-membered or forgotten,” Kalea said.
“Right now the effect is like a…a flickering,” was Camaria’s attempt to describe it with words.
“A loose wire,” Kalea ventured.
“A disconnect,” Anahata finished.
Kage listened, watched and witnessed the weaving, enchanted with the Trinity’s untangling of the threads, how they braided each into the tapestry, creating, revealing more and more of the pattern, of the picture, how they did it so naturally with senses Kage had yet to form.
“We must leave,” Camaria was surprised to find herself saying aloud, not in reaction but a choice she’d felt coming for some time but had yet to express.
All three looked at her, each one feeling the gavel weight of Camaria’s declaration.
—------------
“What do you mean we have to leave?” Kage confronted Camaria once they were in a private space and readying for bed, Poppy asleep in the cot.
“We always planned to, had we not?” Camaria countered.
“But you said I needed to know the Way first, that when it was time I would Know,” Kage protested, his concern deepening with his tone.
“I feel a shift, Kage, and it is within me, threads that are pulling. I have a desire that is not in this Realm, outside of this reality,” she said, trying to explain herself in a language Kage would understand.
“And what is that?” Kage challenged.
“Freedom, Kage. I entered this Realm knowing I would be inside, to find you, but now I wish for us to be out. I wish for us to be Free. I want our children to experience the East, to experience Freedom, and not the kind that you feel you have to fight for, always afraid and guarding.”
“Kage, let us go somewhere new,” Camaria implored, the first time Kage ever hearing a note of desperation in her tone. Kage let out a loud sigh of exasperation trying to release his mounting panic at what Camaria was asking.
“We have built so much here, a life, together…what would I do there, live in your shadow?” Kage asked, voicing a concern of his ego, yes, but not the True one of his Heart.
What if I am not good enough? He confessed, not meaning to let the intonation out into the field between them (they shared).
“Kage,” Camaria said, “you could do whatever you wanted. Simply be a man, a husband, a father, your sovereign self. That is all we need to do.
“But what does that mean? I try, but I can’t even imagine what I would Mean there.”
“Everything and nothing…” Camaria said, and this was, for a moment, strangely yet exceedingly appealing to Kage, and something within him let go. It lasted only a moment, but long enough for him to experience what letting go might feel like.
“The protecting, how you care for us in that way, I know this is an expression of your Love,” Camaria went on, “but it is hurting you. It takes your energy but does not replenish. It has limits. It has an end, and at the end there is an emptiness. I feel the beliefs that weave this reality are pressing also on me, on us, like a heavy net.”
And did Kage ever feel the weight of that net which so inextricably knotted/entangled him. What Camaria offered was paradise, yet how could he live in a Utopia with his hands so deep in the filth he helped to create. He did not deserve to leave, yet he did not want to be left. So they could not go. Though he could not continue to be complacent, his complacency was the only thing between The Viper, The Empire, and his family. He was destined to live as a hypocrite—a lying fucking hypocrite—protecting his family at the expense of so many other people’s Loved Ones.
So, Kage could very clearly see threads of his own—the plan, the trap, set by The Viper—expertly woven around him, so tangled that Kage could find no way out.
Yet if they stayed to make change from within, what could he possibly do to correct it, to take back what he had released, aside from rewinding time, aside from choosing another course of action at the points that pivoted them in this direction, aside from re-writing this entire story?
If he had had the courage to voice this to Anahata and Kalea, they would have told him to go ahead and re-write it, that it could be done because it was he himself who wrote it in the first place. But he did not, and so the imposter of belief continued to cloud this Knowing.
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Junkyard Dog
Today felt like a good day to take the girls along to the city. The vibration on the horizon was placid, the weather sunny and kissed with a light breeze, and Camaria knew that the children—Joshua, Penny, Bridgitta, and Little, whose name was actually William, it turned out—would be visiting The Zen with their mother, all growing up now but always excited for the added company of Camaria’s girls. The children and their mother had visited The Garden every week for the 8 years since they’d chased Little toward their discovery of the sanctum, not once forfeiting their time with Zen for all the world—not when Penny broke an ankle, not when Bridgitta took ill, not when Joshua began to think of little else than the girl he fell in Love with at the age of 15. Sinead would also be joining them with Arek in tow, having planned to take extra time to run their errands that morning.
Their practice was full and nourishing under the pink blossoms of the cherry trees—Zen, the 3 mothers, and all 9 of their children, aged 15 all the way down to one single year. After they finished, The Gallery echoed with goodbyes and the tail ends of “until next time” conversations, and a few of the children ran and yelped, weaving between their mothers from the last child who’d been tagged.
“Joshua! Stop encouraging him!” Joshua’s mother scolded when Little bumped her arm as he grabbed the back of her shirt and hid behind her.
“All right mother,” Joshua laughed, standing up to his full height which was now several inches higher than his mother’s.
So, the women and children said their farewells, and Camaria charted a new course home, their wagon having been loaded with metal scraps Zen needed taken to the Junkyard.
—----------
It was a rare occasion that Camaria visited the Junkyard, so rare that she could count on one hand how many times she’d been down this road. The yard was dumped in the northernmost part of the Northern District. It was disorganised and no longer manned, littering the West side of the river which was fed from tributaries that originated high up in the Lost Mountains.
As Camaria and her children approached, Camaria could see that The Establishment had given up on containment, and the waste and stench spilled beyond the original circumference of its broken chain fence.
“Mama, what’s that smell?” Cressida asked, wrinkling her nose, and Molina and Indigo did the same in response, Indigo actually covering her nose and mouth with both of her hands. Poppy hid her face in her mother’s curls from where she was strapped to her back in her sling.
“I am not sure, Lovey, rotting food perhaps?” Camara tried to explain as she sought the source herself.
“Let’s find a place to deposit this,” Camaria said, “then we can go home.” Then addressing Cressida and Indigo, “once we unload, you can ride in the wagon for the way back. You girls look tired.”
“I can pull them, Mama,” Molina offered.
“Thank you, Lovey,” Camaria said, grateful, always grateful, for her eldest daughter’s assistance. They took a few moments to take in their surroundings, to assess the place and its contents, to find their bearings amidst the rusting, defunct machines; the broken, discarded household items; the decaying organic waste buzzing with flies—the smell not as overwhelming as it had been upon their first arrival, but it was still far from pleasant.
“There, we can put it there,” Molina suggested, pointing to a rubbish pile of similar stuff as in their wagon.
“That looks just right,” Camaria agreed, and wheeled the wagon to the pile. After giving water to each of her daughters from her canvas waterskin, the four of them started to unload, Poppy still content on her mother’s back.
When she was sweeping the wagon out as best she could with the cloth she usually kept in her front pocket, Camaria looked up to see Indigo several meters away, her back to her mother, looking at something, frozen in place.
“Mama?” Indigo said, her tone on the edge of terror, not turning to face her mother but focused on the source. And this was when Camaria heard the snarling, saw the large dog who had appeared from around an old, dilapidated shed, matted and mottled hair bristling, top lip back to bare its teeth.
“Mama?” Indigo repeated, and Camaria’s own hairs bristled in response.
“Stay still,” Camaria commanded, “it is All Right, Indigo, just stay still.”
“Okay,” Indigo said in a voice even smaller, seeming even more delicate than usual, and Camaria’s Heart tore at the prospect, the danger her little Indigo was facing. Instinct splayed her arms out, corralling Molina and Cressida behind her as she took her eyes off of Indigo and the dog for a moment to realise the furniture pile.
“Get up there, on that pile,” Camaria instructed Molina as she tightened the sling that held Poppy. “Help Cressida up. Slowly, do not make any sudden noise,” and as they did as they were told, Camaria refocused on Indigo and the dog who maintained a consistent growl between snarls.
“Indigo, back up slowly, toward Mama,” Camaria instructed in measured speech. And to the dog, who snarled and snapped but did not move closer, she hushed, “it is All Right, peace. Hush now. Hush.”
“Come, Lovey,” she repeated to Indigo as she moved to meet her daughter, ready to spring, to scoop Indigo up if the dog made any indication of attack. Indigo backed up slowly, slowly, Camaria inched forward, the dog snarled and snapped, then Indigo tripped on some loose gravel, and the dog lunged forward but was yanked back by the rope around its neck that Camaria had not noticed until then. Camaria sprung, lifted Indigo into her arms, and retreated out of the dog’s reach who was barking at full volume now.
Poppy started to cry, and seeing the hold the rope (leash) had on the dog despite its struggles, Camaria squatted down so she could rest Indigo on her knee, her hands free to check her over, her hands touching, pressing, clutching Indigo’s face, her head, her small shoulders.
“You are Ok, you are Ok,” Camaria repeated, breathless, reassuring, soothing her daughter as well as herself. She reached beyond her own back to pat Poppy’s little bottom for comfort whose cries settled into hitching breaths as the dog’s barking de-escalated to its original low growls.
“Are you girls, ok?” she said to Molina and Cressida, venturing to glance at them, then back to the dog.
“Yes, Mama,” Molina answered.
“Yes, Mama,” Cressida parroted. Camaria could see/feel that both girls were crying but managing to refrain from panic. Rising from her squat with Indigo in her arms, Camaria moved sideways to the furniture pile, lifted Indigo up to join her sisters, and unstrapped Poppy from her back.
“Easy,” she said to the dog as she handed Poppy to Molina.
“Stay with your sisters,” she instructed Poppy, who put her fingers into her mouth, hitching with soft cries, but listening to her mother’s commands.
Once her daughters were safely off the ground and out of reach, Camaria ventured closer to the dog, gaining a chance to see the condition it was in, and it hurt her Heart. It was obvious that the dog was starving as its ribs showed through its thin skin, and it might have had a thick brown coat had it not been in such bad shape. For some reason, someone had tied it up by a rope around its neck, Camaria guessed, perhaps because of its currently agitated state, but she could not know for sure. When she got closer, the dog started snarling again, but softly, and it became evident that it was female, her teats full, her sagging body recently empty of her litter which Camaria could see was behind her in the gravel of the Junkyard ground, though none of the three pups were moving.
“Oh, mama,” Camaria tried to say but came out more like a sob. “Poor mama,” she lamented, tears now forming, falling for the mama’s loss, glad that the pups were hidden behind the shed from her daughters’ view. “It is ok, we will not harm you.” The dog’s damp black eyes rolled up to meet hers, and Camaria felt how very tired she was.
“Can we come down now?” Molina asked.
“Yes,” Camaria said over her shoulder, “but slowly so you do not startle her. And stay over there. She is only hungry.”
“And sad,” Cressida chimed in as she declined Molina’s hand and got herself down.
“And sad, yes, babe,” Camaria agreed.
“Let’s feed her,” Molina said.
“Yes, we will do that. Yet, we must remain cautious, at least for a while until we are sure she understands our intent,” she told her children. “But I think we can help her. I think we can feed her and calm her so she does not feel the need to bite.”
“Can I give her some water?” Indigo asked as Camaria met her daughters at the wagon.
“You can fill up the bowl, but the food and water have to go through Mama for now, ok?” So, Indigo filled up the small bowl Camaria produced from the picnic basket that had a permanent spot in their wagon. She handed it to her mother who approached the dog with it, placed it on the dirt, and moved it closer so she could reach, and the dog lapped it up. They did the same with some leftover food they had in their picnic basket. And after she was fed, the dog rounded the corner of the shed and lay down with her still pups.
“Mama, can we go over there now?” Cressida asked.
“Not yet, Lovey, Mama needs a few minutes with her,” Camaria replied.
“Ok,” Molina conceded, and the girls stayed in the shade by the wagon to let their mother handle things. Once her daughters were settled into waiting, Camaria inched close enough to touch the dog’s head, and though she flinched slightly at first contact, she let Camaria run her hand over her fur, once, twice, more, in rhythmic strokes.
“Oh, I am sorry, mama,” Camaria told her as she petted her matted fur. “You are safe now. You are safe,” she said as she continued the rhythmic touch. “I can help you bury your pups,” she offered. And the dog, sensing the truth in this, allowed Camaria to dig a hole a few feet from where she lay and gently move the pups, one by one, into their resting place.
“I am going to untie your rope, now,” Camaria told her, intoned to her, sent to her in a calm, assuring vibration.
“You are safe now.”
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Welcome, and all set! Stay tuned for announcements!
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Ferrwoman
Mauve and the witches disembarked at the Floating Dock 50 metres off the briny coast of Thunder Rock, the water from that point much too shallow to cross by the larger ferry. The small boat was tied and waiting for the trio to climb aboard for the final push to their destination.

The water lapped at the sides of the boat as Mauve stood steady, polling the witches the rest of the way to shore—back to their friends, their work, their lovers, their dragons. Wren’s young apprentices and Scorpio’s burning tug pulled them through The Mist of the Ageless Sea.

Some found this part of the journey disconcerting as the smell of sulphur inevitably thickened along with the mist as one got near, a ring around The Rock, hiding it from detection until it was too late to turn back. This was, in fact, the sisters’ favourite part…the anticipation, the not-knowing, the challenge yet to come, the Magic. Sparrow trailed her fingers in the wake as they slid through the water; Wren watched ahead from the helm as their Home came into view. Scorpio would be there with the dragons to meet them.

“Mauve, why do you stay here, why do you take this journey day after day, back and forth? Is there nowhere else you would rather be?” Wren asked, not taking her eyes off of some point ahead in the mist not visible to the purely Human eye.

“Now, that is an interesting question, my girl,” Mauve answered. “It has never been the same journey twice.”

“Of course, but what about the East, the West, the South? Have you been there?”

“Haha, yeeeeesss, of course. I have been wild and have had many adventures, taken lovers, fallen in love. I have been a mother and a widow and a Queen and a servant. This crone before you, she has lived. And she has died. And she is the Ferrywoman polling you between the Worlds,” she said, skirts blowing, her untamed, wiry grey hair somewhat contained beneath the coral rag she’d tied around her head.

“What would there be to do that is more interesting than passing through the liminal, the space in between?” Mauve asked.

“Reaching the other side, perhaps?” Wren challenged.

“Bah! Yes, for the young. But I am older than you can imagine, and I have lived. And I have died.”

The rest of the voyage was silent save for the waves lapping and Sparrow’s fingers trailing. Sparrow sat up, the tug burning hotter now, when they spotted Scorpio on the shield with the dragons at his back.
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You-In-Verse: Little Lioness
Today is my first attempt
To catch you in a poem
You will not be caught
And we both know that
I cannot fully comprehend
That which is magic
A miracle
I can only estimate

I can, though, reflect
A moment
A glimpse
A snapshot of you in mid-laugh
Which is only a syllable
A metaphor
One word in a sentence
But somehow the whole moral
Brackets and all

You think me patronising
When I take you in
Delighting in your halo of frizz
Joyfully calling you a “little lioness”

Yet it is not only
A cub I see
But a creature of majesty
A miracle
A still and unwavering presence
Only a wild cat can possess

You pen your own story
Define and refine
The carefully chosen words
You put to the paper
That you fold and unfold

I can only sit and listen
Because that is all
One should expect
Of a mother

The pond, the echo
The weaving of the tapestry
An anchor, a lighthouse
A tether, a net
A safe and soft
Place to land
A home
But never a pot with the stopper
Sealing tightly the
Primed black liquid

You will not have
My pen on your page
My wrong handedness
Smudging
The freshly written ink

Tattooed on your skin
Are the curves,
The lines
Of your own inking
Inside and outside
The lines you’ve drawn

Let it live there, you say
Let it dry

Let it mark me
With my own story

She is tattooed there
The lioness
Along with the books
That transform into birds
Into worlds set alight
By your own imagination

I see us though
We are there in the swirls
Over your heart
Encircling your version
Of your own “mom” tattoo

And mine
Brilliant and bold
Over my own Mother’s Heart
Forever the name
Your name…

—Kalea’s Human: Songs of Sorrow (the day before the departure)

After long hugs from she and Anahata, Kalea touched the medallion in the shape of a key around Camaria’s neck and pressed the poems into her hand. She said to her daughter:

“Navigate with the stars, they will always lead you home.”
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Ashlyn Enters the Deep East: U-Turn
Ashlyn took a u-turn. Her evanescence was not hard or abrupt, but she floated as if gently carried, placed seated onto the steps of a pyramid-shaped structure that rose at her back dozens of feet into the sky. Lush green vines snaked up its ancient stone surface blooming with flowers in colours some of which she could not place.

The activity of the city flowed like clouds in the Æther, light and drifting, yet energetic, vibrational, the Cosmic Hum of a Universe that she both heard and felt. Before her, beings moved through their activities, some flickering and disappearing like holograms, fractals, as if they travelled also by some other means. Bracing her body with her hands on the stone steps, her head fell back without warning as her body responded to the harmony, and there she watched airships fly silently through the purple sky above—for how long she could not say, for Time didn’t seem to matter nor the passing of it.

She suddenly felt very heavy, obvious, clunky, dense, slow compared to these beings who were Human but at the same time more than that—a lighter version of Human. But with this heaviness came with it the feeling of being opened from within as if she were one of the flowers that hung from the vines along the walls of the structure. The 1000-Petaled Lotus.

Her mouth agape, still looking to the airships overhead, she thought to herself: Where am I? This cannot be the Western Realm.

“You are in Sirius, Friend, the Northern of the Twin Cities,” a friendly voice answered aloud, “in the heart of the city on the steps of what we call The Upper Room.” When Ashlyn only moved her gaping expression to land on the person speaking to her, they continued.

“You are new here,” they said with a gentle laugh. “From the West by the looks of things. I’m Matias,” they said and slightly bowed a blonde-crowned head to her. They wore plain clothes—pants and a short-sleeved button-up shirt, the colours Ashlyn didn’t even register. They wore no rings or jewellery, there was no flickering or floating. They were utterly plain. But at the same time radiant, glowing, shimmering in the periphery of her vision. She felt welcome, invited, completely at Home in Matias’ presence.

“I am not supposed to be here. I should be in the Western Realm,” Ashlyn marvelled and furrowed her brow in confusion.

“But you are here,” Matias said, a pleasant lightness in their voice.

“I’m sorry,” Ashlyn said, shaking her head, closing her mouth, suddenly aware that it was hanging open. “I’m Ashlyn. From Veil’s Edge,” and she bowed her head slightly, imitating Matias’s greeting.

“Ah, The Edge! Wonderful! I was expecting you and not expecting you at the same time. Everything shifted, and then you were here. Enoch will want me to bring you inside to meet him straight away,” they exclaimed, momentarily placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Enoch?” Ashlyn asked, Matias’ brief touch still warming her skin.

“Yes. And the rest of the Guides. But Enoch especially. He has taken it upon himself to invite the Humans into The Upper Room. Some of the Guides concern themselves with Humans, others do not,” Matias explained.

“Are you Human?” Ashlyn blurted.

“Of course I am! Do I not look Human?” Matias asked, raising one eyebrow.

Ashlyn turned to fully face them now sitting beside her on the stone steps, to assess their features, to assess a person who was bordering on unassessable according to what she had known this far into her young Human life. Matias shimmered slightly, and although they seemed to be more male than female, and quite pleasing to look at, she might add, they didn’t seem like one or the other. Just Matias. Now wasn’t this interesting, she thought.

Matias laughed a beautiful, musical laugh. “You will need to know right off that we are very sensitive here to thought—you are practically shouting to me through your mind, your expressions. You are very open, and perhaps unaware of this?” they inquired with that same raise in the eyebrow. “I feel you, Ashlyn.” Her cheeks pinked with a hint of embarrassment.

“But that is perfectly wonderful. Come with me; there is much to show you,” they said as they rose then offered a hand to pull Ashlyn to her feet. Their touch was so warm.

“Matias. Thank you.”

“That is what I am here to do,” they said matter-of-factly. “I am here to Show you.” And that beautiful music spread across their face, again.

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Purity
In the days and nights that followed, wherever Finn was not working with his GrandDa and the twins were not helping out at Moona and Hermod’s, or assisting at the Lighthouse, or idling about, the trio spoke a great deal about their past adventures, their families, their dreams and aspirations.

When the boys’ Ma and Pa died, GrandDa Relic, their Ma’s father, cared for them in the very cabin where they were born. Once he got old enough to venture on his own, Finn’s brother was often off somewhere—exploring, hunting, trading, offering his skills and strength to neighbouring settlements where he paused for a meal and a warm place to sleep. Finn’s brother did not feel the call of the sea to the East but the mysteries to the West, and with every beyondering he got closer to its borders. But Durin’s Cove was his Home, Finn and his GrandDa the hearth that warmed it, so he would not leave, not permanently, not yet.

When he was home, the three of them finished projects or tended to any patching, building, or heavy work that needed doing as his brawn and endurance made them feel as if they could do anything, lift anything, move mountains. The energy generated increased exponentially when the duo became a trio. Finn loved his GrandDa and lived a happy life with him, yet when he saw his brother coming through the trees or waiting for them at the dock, his heart rushed right up through his throat.

“Erris!” he couldn’t help but exclaim, even then, as if he were 10 again, despite being almost a man already at 15.

Finn travelled with his GrandDa by sea and had seen much in his young life, but he wanted to venture with Erris by land, to explore more of the North, perhaps the South, perhaps even the Western Realm, where his brother said he himself was called to go but hadn’t yet.

“Erris said now that I'm old enough to take care of myself, he would take me with him this time, when he returns at the turn of the season, when summer cools into autumn,” Finn said one evening, fingering the pebbles in his pocket, and Kilo and Shiraz were excited for him.

Finn and the twins bonded so completely through the summer that when Shiraz suggested they hold a formal ceremony to celebrate their sacred friendship, their Anam Cara bond, neither boy felt it was in any way over the top. So, one cool evening after the ships were docked and bobbing at the harbour and the wolves were howling their eerie good night, the trio crept up the steps to the foot of the lighthouse, sat on the cobblestones on the cliff edge in the shadow of its sturdy bulk, and as the light swept over the black waters, the trio pledged their friendship with a sincerity only a child can do.

“I have been collecting these on the beach during our many walks, just for this occasion,” Shiraz said as she produced three necklaces strung with gems and stones of various colours and constitutions from the broad front pocket that spanned the front of her skirts. “I think it is a tradition to wear the beads of your Anam Cara,” she went on, “but if it is not, it is now,” she said, face lighting up each time the lantern swept near.

“I will always be with you—and as long as I live and after I die, you will not be alone,” she pledged as she placed one necklace around Finn’s neck and the other around Kilo’s.

“I will always be with you—and as long as I live and after I die, you will not be alone,” Finn said.

“I will always be with you—and as long as I live and after I die, you will not be alone,” Kilo said to finish the simple ceremony as the children placed their foreheads together for some time, their golden thread weaving and warming, as the light from the lantern continued its sweeping and guiding, for the lost ships searching for Home.

—---------------

Later when Kilo went up to the lighthouse to see if Hermod needed any company, Shiraz and Finn made their way down the steps and back to the shore.

“Have you ever kissed anyone, Finn? Romantically, I mean,” the girl asked the boy abruptly.

“Why do you ask?” the boy queried, eyeing the girl sidelong, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m curious, I suppose. I have not. But I would like to. Be kissed. To kiss. I would like to kiss you. I wonder what that would feel like instead of imagining it,” she confessed.

“You imagine kissing me?” he asked, interest piqued.

“Of course! And I write about it, too,” the girl continued.

“Ha! Really? I should like to read those writings!” The boy couldn’t help but let out a laugh of surprise. “Shiraz, you are the most honest girl I have ever met. So fearless. So honest. Your heart on the outside.”

“And you wonder why I want to kiss you, Finn. With words like that,” and the boy smiled fully then with the lips Shiraz dreamed about at night.

“Shiraz,” the boy began, sobering a little with a thought that landed. “You are only 13, and I am almost a man of 15.”

“I know,” she said simply.

“We are Friends.”

“I know,” she said again.

“And that is everything to me,” the boy said, bracing himself for her response, hoping that he would not hurt her.

“I know this. And I have decided to Love you as my dearest friend and also to Love you in another way, too. Even if I am still a girl and you are almost a man.”

“You are not hurt?”

“It is not pain…I think it is desire that I feel. And it is more than enough. Love is not about possession. I do not need to have you. I only need to know you exist.”

“From the mouth of babes…” the boy said, shaking his head in awe at the girl.

“I am not a babe,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No, indeed you are not…maybe, someday…when we are older…” he began.

“Someday is a lovely thought. And I will hold it here,” she said as she touched the centre of her chest. “Though I would kiss you easily now, Finn, my first kiss…with you.”

“Would it be enough…for now?” he asked, a little nervous for her answer.

“It would be everything…for ever,” the girl confirmed.

So, the boy and girl stopped walking over the rocky sand just a few metres shy of the cabin but just in the shadow of the cliff above. They turned to each other—the girl turned her face up, the boy dipped his head, stooped slightly to meet her, and both closed their eyes as their lips met, salty from the ocean mist, gently, but not briefly, lingering just enough to be burned into them both forever. She couldn’t help but bring her hand to his cheek, feeling him there for just a timeless moment.

When they finally parted, she stood on the stoop of her aunt and uncle’s cabin, held her fingertips to her mouth, held the joy that welled warm in the centre of her heart, and watched the boy walk around the bend of the base of the cliff, leaving the promise of someday on her lips.

She couldn't see the smile on his face, hear the whistle in his heart, but she felt it as he sent it down their thread.
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Mani’s Homes
Starting that very day and every day for three months, Kilo made the trek down the paths to Elder Mani, to practise with him in his quiet refuge in the ancient Redwood Forest. Kilo had always practised alone, first taught by his father when only a child—but with him gone, Kilo knew that he needed to seek another teacher.

Mani was as ancient as some of the saplings in the forest, but not an Ancient in that he had not yet sounded the ringing of the next frequency of his being. He’d chosen to stay, for now, in this Density, the highest vibration one could hold in form while still being able to relate to others in the physical. And he related to it, immensely.

In fact, Mani’s wonder for the physical world, for GaiaSophia and all of the lifeforms on it, was reverence, it was pure delight. Mani spoke to the mighty Redwoods that encircled his dwellings, he knelt for hours in the earth planting seeds, feeling into the wisdom imparted by the primordial (prehistoric? archaic?), ah, precambrian mycelium that ran in infinite networks below him—the blue, red, brown mushrooms that popped out of the ground reaching above the surface with all the secrets of life. He laughed out loud in awe every night when he lay down to sleep looking up at the cosmos through the glass roof he fashioned over his bed, the clouds that forever shifted with galaxies being born.

Quiet is never complete silence, stillness is never complete inertia, as the consistent Primordial Hum forever creates. Mani existed with one foot in the Infinite and the other on GaiaSophia where stillness was the bridge, the space from where to hear what continued to be created. He continued to experience the life he loved with both the memory and the history of the past, and he guided others into this Wisdom, as well—yet, with the recognition of what once was, Mani brought new light, new sight, new delight at every moment. The ancient never became old; the past was never forgotten, but it was integrated, made new, re-known. Mani simply re-structured everything anew with blueprints he re-drew and re-imagined.

His Beloved had come to the Eastern Realm riddled with physical pain when Mani was just a young man of 20. All she knew was pain having been born in the concrete industrial district of Slumber City, a small, tiny thing with a very weak and thin Lifeforce. Sometimes the pain was dull and aching, sometimes she writhed with it, and when she was exhausted from the writing, she lay still until sleep gave her some temporary comfort.

No one knew what was wrong with her, for in the West they understood every discomfort to be wrong; so, tender and hurting, bedridden and atrophying, her very body became her prison. She had lived almost an entire two decades in and out of hospitals, on and off of medications, when finally she gave up on everything, including life, and entered The Zen Garden at the age of 19 thinking she would prepare there to die. But it was through that garden that she stepped into the East, into Mani’s Redwood Forest, into both his life and most profoundly, his heart.

When she came to him, Mani had started building his home in the Redwood Forest after falling deeply in Love with the place having beyondered there from his family’s dwelling. He had stood in the clearing, felt a resounding ‘yes’, and started to build knowing that there was a reason for its creation, yet not quite knowing what or who that might be except that it was All Right.

Mani didn't take pity on her, although he did indeed feel very deeply her anguish, her frustration, her hopelessness, her most pressing and least answerable question, why? Why this pain? Instead he saw her in a way she had never seen herself—the delicate Redwood sapling with every bit of what was required to become the sturdy tree. He knew how she could be resurrected from the raw materials of Life itself—everything there waiting to be put to service in that very forest.

No, he didn’t take pity on her. He loved her so fully that he showed her what could be done. When she hurt too much to speak, they didn't speak at all with words but in a language that was much older. And when she healed, she renamed herself Shanti for the peace she finally reached within.

“Mani,” his Beloved said, “Mani, everywhere that hurt is now the source of my most profound pleasure. And I once hurt everywhere.” And for that, Mani was deeply content.

The Home they built was a sprawling cluster of the most enchanting buildings in the Realm. They were made of Redwood and full of windows that reached both the ceilings and the floors, some even capped the roofs as skylights. They were situated amongst the trees and canopies of the forest growth to welcome the light but shade the intense heat of the afternoon sun, to also allow for bathing in the moonlight of the night.

The main house’s back was nestled in the mossy earth berm where dishes were washed and food prepared in a kitchen with windows level with the micro world of insects and small creatures. From the berm, the landscape plunged lower into a small clearing where the face of the house opened to several levels of edible gardens of lettuces, root vegetables, and vines that twisted up stakes and arbours. They had built a hearth of stone quarried from the Rocky Shield transported by Mani and his Beloved with a cart on some very hot and uncomfortable days (now that is quite the story for another time!). It was there in that stone fireplace that most of the meals were cooked and the heat created to warm the space.

Their workshop was full of both raw and planed lengths of wood, pieces of furniture, doors and windows, works of art in various stages of completion. The walls were covered with shelves of handheld tools and papered with hand drawn blueprints, some of which were also spread out on grand wooden work tables, that of course, Mani made himself or with the help of his Beloved, their daughter, or the various students that came to learn from him.

They lived and created there for 80 years, birthed and raised their daughter Fia together, until his Beloved peacefully transitioned into the next stage of her Soul's journey. But he, himself, was not finished with his purpose in this life. So, he stayed and delighted in this staying, alone yet never alone in the place they built in the Redwood Forest, the place he built for her, the place they built together, with their very own hands.

And many people came, including a young Anahata, Kalea, and all of her brothers—Alexander eventually building a Home with Fia, Duke called to the solace of the forest, Adonis and Hector taking the craft into the settlements around them, to help others build the beauty, the creations in which they wanted to live, inspired by the wonder of Life.

Once a group of Newcomers came through the forest and declared to him:

“Your roof should be constructed that way because that is how it has always been done.” To which Mani simply said:

“Ah yes, but my roof was built this way, and that is how I desire it to be.”

The group of Newcomers lingered for some months, learned, and moved on to pepper their own creations throughout the Realm. And more came, year after year, decade after decade. Mani showed them how to create out of possibilities rather than the limited measurements deduced by crude tools only equipped to quantify the finite. He taught them to build, alternatively, from the Cosmic Laws of Physics, Math, and Geometry, revealing new ways to apply existing patterns to manifest not only sound houses, but art. Mani used his hands to create what his heart and mind imagined, and he could make anything with those hands. He showed all who asked how every dwelling and every body could be a Home.

So, Mani stayed. And Kilo came.

—-----------------

Kilo spent hours sinking into their practice, away from his duties, away from the people of the Settlement, away from the Newcomers who were freshly rubbing off the sleep of the Western Realm. Ancient and beautifully wrinkled Mani would demand no words, no speaking, unless there was something fundamental to say. But he laughed often, more like a sigh of wonderment that escaped his lips, and Kilo couldn’t help but look at the world through Mani’s ancient but forever young eyes.

“Take it to the mat, Kilo,” he would say.

“Focus,” he would say.

“Let go,” he would say.

“Soften…”

“Pause…”

“Stay…”

“Breathe…”

“Release…”

Kilo flowed through the movements with little instruction, absorbed the Yoga through keen observation, alignment, and breath, in the cocoon of the birdsong, the rustling of the leaves, the crackling of the fire on cold mornings in Mani’s small studio. Mani practised with him often, and when he was finished, he left Kilo to his self exploration—off to walk, to visit friends or his daughter Fia and her Beloved Alexander, or to sit with a book in his nest of multi-coloured cushions taking moments to gaze through the window or to chuckle to himself about something he had read or observed through the many windows.

Kilo came to Mani seeking strength in body and mind. A stoic pursuit, if not a little misguided, because strength didn’t come in exactly the way he wanted to cultivate it—he no longer wanted to be gentle and patient. He wanted to arm wrestle with the hands of fate, for it to yield to him, to his will.

He was simply being tested, and he knew it. But still he fought. Through every shadow that obscured his vision, he breathed, sweated, stretched until it was he who yielded to what was concealed within his struggle. Camaria’s gifts were in a locked and charmed box; Kilo’s were moved through the rhythms of his breath, the pulses of his body, the essence of the Æther.

Unlike their surroundings, his Yoga wasn’t always silent or peaceful. His thighs shook in Warrior, his shoulders burned in Crow. He was deeply connected to it all—every shudder, every pulling of the bowstring before each great release.

The twists wrung him—a stale and dirty rag, dripping poison as sweat from his body, as tears from his eyes. Despite being fit and healthy, Kilo wobbled with the balancing poses. The backbends released hollers and bellows with every bending of his spine which had become tight and unyielding over the weeks since Camaria’s departure. He finally, finally surrendered into the vulnerability of the deep opening of his hips.

His breath returned. His mind cleared. His heart unfurled once more with each sweet surrender, the stillness of Savasana, returning to himself. Yet when he did so, spent and deserving, his Human wound wanted for sutures.

Lying sweaty and wrung clean on his mat on Mani’s wooden floor or on the cool grass of the glen, each day, Kilo let the white flag flutter to rest upon his daydreaming face. He would roll to his side, use his arm to push himself up to sitting. He would close his eyes, put his hands together in prayer, breathe in the scent of the Redwoods, then release:

Ommmmmmm,
Shanti, shanti, shantiiiii.
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kalea
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I am Kalea, Daughter of Su Ana, Beloved to Anahata, Mother of Camaria. I sing to the song of The Polymath, The WisdomKeeper, The StoryWeaver, and bring joy and laughter to all.
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Although it can look like business as usual Inside the Veil–people going to their jobs, to school, entranced by whatever task is on their schedules for the day, whatever is on the airwaves, on their media feeds–life in the Western Realm is collapsing. All around them wars rage. The streets are unsafe. Families and relationships unravel. Poverty and injustice are everyday realities. And like an old, crackling radio, they can tune out the noise–because when they tune in, it’s too loud to bear.
The Western Realm is a disconnected existence of fear and battle, numbness and discontent, noise and distraction, scarcity and lack, sorrow, grief, and regret. There are plenty of riches, but they are of the wrong kind. For those living there, there is never enough, and they survive by stealing, hoarding, or hiding from the next blow, from the struggle, from the reality they created.
The Western Realm is a world imploding on itself.
Life in the Eastern Realm is much different–the people are intimately connected through their hearts and minds–with access to the EarthScape, the DreamScape, and the ComsoScape, it is a place where the people thrive steeped in a rich and sacred culture of respect, connection, ingenuity, genius, eldership, and love–an impassioned existence teeming with life and endless possibility.
Is this Utopia? Ah, yes, perhaps. But more accurately, it is a Realm of Possibility.
What the Westerners don’t know is that it was they, themselves, who created their prison and continue to shackle themselves to it; the Eastern stewards at Veil’s Edge have taken up the task of breaking them free. Families are broken, lives are lost, people suffer, as the Western Realm collapses around them, but they, at any time, have the power to save themselves and each other…and it is for their very survival that they remember, that they become conscious, that they take a deep breath, take off their blindfolds to see again.
There is great beauty that still exists for the Westerners, and they fleetingly glimpse it, but are these glimpses enough for the paths to the Eastern Realm to show themselves, to allow them to pass through?
The story begins after The Great Collapse and during The Great Awakening which was the catalyst for The Great Migration of people seeking a More Beautiful World, a world they would find outside of the Veil.
The story begins with the death of a Beloved, and also a birth, an Ember, and so it goes…
The lives of Easterners Kalea and Anahata, their daughter Camaria, Kilo, and Camaria's children Molina, Indigo, Cressida, Poppy, and Coda, and Westerners John and Jane, Bellatrix, Jack, Ombretta, and Kage, are woven together into a glorious tapestry of this More Beautiful World, a world born out of the stuff of dreams and possibility.
But what will this Great Awakening take–from the people at Veil’s Edge and the people Inside the Veil–and will they all make it out alive, whatever that means? Or what will it give, what will it give to them all?
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In the Dark
Poppy was restless in the bed between her parents that night, tossing and twisting in the winds of her dreams. Camaria and Kage had soothed her with coos and touches when their daughter intermittently woke with a cry or a whimper, but after minutes, hours, of the dozing and the waking, Camaria finally left the warmth of the bed and Kage sleeping in it to nurse and settle in a more comfortable position.
“Do you need me?” Kage’d whispered, not quite awake.
“No, Love, go back to sleep,” Camaria assured him, Kage already breathing heavily in slumber before the last word passed her lips.
Camaria lit a candle and carried it and little Poppy, sleepy and resting her head on her Mama’s shoulder, small hands gripping her Mama’s nightshift, down to the great room to get them settled and gently rocking in the cedarwood chair built for that purpose. Before she sat, careful not to jostle Poppy too much, Camaria had pulled the chair close to the cabinet that held the radio, realizing that according to the clock it was nearly 12:12. She knew how to unblock the signal and did so deftly with one hand as the other held her suckling toddler who was already drifting back into her dreams.
There was some crackling as Camaria tuned in, then the signal became clear, and the voice that came through it was warm, lush, exquisite as liquid summer honey.
“Nothing is real,” she began. “Nothing is true,” she stated, her dialect accented, “r”s coming from the back of the throat and the lips, the bare, intimate tone of her voice filling every pore. The statement could have been harsh, final, off-putting, yet somehow it evoked intrigue, a desire in the receiver to hear more, to feel more.
“This realm is one built on illusions and trickery, we as the puppets while The Empire pulls our strings. We are pawns in the dramas The Empire makes up. We are pitted against each other to fight for scraps like starving dogs. What we believe to be real is a game. It is a fantasy, a world of make believe, lies, superstition to disguise the magic.
“I have to admit, I believe there is a new world somewhere, one where we suffer less, one where we do not have to fight the puppetmasters, but I am no romantic. I see the death, the killing, the disease, the pain of the people—this I cannot deny. And though I see the cage we are in for what it is, I too am imprisoned within it. And I must fight from where I broadcast in the shadows, not hiding but concealed on the black side of the moon, we must fight, to be free.”
Swept into the dark illumination of Phoenix’s musings, Camaria found herself in agreement at some degree, Phoenix’s truth, yet Camaria Understood that this was not where the sentence could end, how the lock on the cage could be opened. Nothing is Real unless you Make Believe; nothing Matters unless you Make it Matter; and Truth is always True, yet what might be true for one is seldom the Whole of It rendering it an unTruth.
And just as Camaria came to the tail of these thoughts, the clouds covered the Moon darkening the room as Phoenix signed off:
“Until next time…over and out burning ones.”
“Mama?” Cressida’s voice softly ventured from the top of the stairs startling Camaria somewhat from the reverie of her thoughts and the silence that lingered then receded as an ocean tide after the wake. Cressida’s curious face was softly illuminated by the small orb of light she held in her left hand that Kalea had carried for her from the East on her last visit.
“This will give you light without burning you,” her GrandMother had told her with pointed animation, a small laugh escaping her as she pulled Cressida closer who was cradled in her lap, Cressida not taking her black eyes off of the orb: serious, intent, intrigued with the light she’d held in her own reverent hand.
Poppy stirred slightly with the sound of her sister’s voice and the change in her mother’s vibration, then promptly relaxed back into sleep. Camaria turned off the radio, blew out the candle, and ascended the stairs, Poppy heavily sleeping on her shoulder, to lead her Cressida back into the Realms of Dreams and Magick.
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You and Me, Babe
Kage was irritable for the next week as the poison cleared. Though he sought Camaria, he did not want her counsel, her understanding, her kind words—the only way for her to Love him when he was in such a state was through her touch. So, after each sunset, she stroked his black hair back from his face as he laid his head on her breast or her belly. Sometimes when he was looking for a target, she would tune the radio to mindless entertainment and lull his Demon to sleep.

Camaria, on the other hand, was awash with insights and epiphanies, things she wanted to share with her Beloved but could not. Speaking of such things would trigger him, things he couldn’t understand, things she couldn’t articulate to him over the buzzing in his tortured mind. She wanted to share possibility and growth and life, while Kage only saw the violent end, the inevitable withering of tender things like rosebuds and petals. Regret was a bitter poison he drank every day, and he sought the antidote that was Camaria as a temporary forgetting. Yet, it could have been the opposite—what she offered and he refused—as Camaria only wanted for Kage to re-member.

“What would I do without you?” he said as they sat on the sofa in front of the fire, his head on her swell of breast, hand on her great and ripe belly. Camaria didn’t know the answer to that question, so she stroked his head until he closed his heavy lids.

Camaria opened the door and stepped out, closed the door softly behind her. The air was starting to chill in the evenings as the summer blinked slow and long into fall, the transition into the slumber of winter. Camaria surrendered to the turn of the seasons, the falling away of the leaves, the amber sunsets that sank earlier with each day descending deeper into the patient darkness—no longer hot, but a distant warmth, carefully yielding to the blessed pause, the retreat into the cave of the bears and their cub.

“My Daughter,” Camaria both said aloud and intoned, “your arrival into the world is nearing.”

She was answered with a flutter, then a summersault that doubled her over slightly, punched out an exhale of a laugh.

“You are getting stronger,” Camaria said as she recovered and straightened, “you are ready. And I think I am, too. To meet you, my Heart, on the outside.”

Humming, Camaria walked into the line of thin crowded trees that bordered their land, moved deeper into the thicket, grounded her moccasined feet in the damp leaves that lined the floor. The Virgo season was upon them; an Earth baby, then, her Daughter, planting Camaria squarely where she needed to be.

How differently Kage saw this becoming, his fire consuming him at times, unable to conceive of the inconceivable, to allow for hope and blossoms and joy without the scorched, browning edges of loss. He could not simultaneously hold them both—Love without Fear and the Fear of Loss that came with Loving—the oscillation between the two disorienting, dis-intigrating, abrupt as a tug of war.

As a Seer, Camaria was able to experience worlds previously unknown to her, realities created through the stories lived by each person she’d met, spun from what they recalled, projected, anticipated—the stories each person created around and about themselves. And Kage’s stories were a sensual impassioned tango that swept her hand across the canvas in their telling as intensely as the dance itself.

She witnessed and played in the structure, the architecture, of his Story, an utterly foreign setting yet deeply familiar, drawn from the same substrate, syntax, notes of her own reality. Only the colours were different, the accents, the points of focus, the reflections, the lighting, the tempo.

Camaria wondered at this—the vast difference in their experience of the seemingly exact set of circumstances—she living alone in her reality, Kage in his, the both of them intersecting in the space they shared. The difference was more than a matter of perception, more than a matter of worldview; it was a Matter of manifestation, of experience, of living in an utterly different world. And she wondered if it were possible to live in three TimeStreams at once, all three being as real as the next. They met in the vesica, the world they shared, but lived a great deal of Time in lands foreign to each other. And Camaria wondered if this could be sustained. And since their Time there was finite, she wondered if it would be enough.

Camaria could observe and understand Kage’s world but would never live there—the violence, the fear, the counting; Kage saw glimpses of Camaria’s through her sight and her paintings that she placed in the eye of their meeting place, but he couldn’t fathom how to make that reality his own. He could not believe in it, and belief was all that Mattered. Wasn’t it?

As a Seer, Camaria could put herself into Kage’s world, in any world; she could observe and experience infinite perspectives, infinite realities, infinite universes, including the world that was forming in their intersection, the world created when their one plus one made three. Their child.

As soon as their daughter was conceived, Camaria could conceive of her. She did not predict her daughter’s story but Knew her purpose, how she connected and intersected with the other Souls in this TimeStream and all others. This Knowing was not an organising of fragmented data points that could be explained through reason or understood through intellect. It was beyond even intuition. It tugged and braided and danced within her as the first flutters in her womb, of this Soul’s manifestation in this version of the material world, as the Daughter of Camaria and Kage, GrandDaughter of Kalea and Anahata, EarthKeeper, NatureWhisperer, MamaBear. Her threads already finding their way through the Æther, anchoring, bonding, entwining with a Forgetful Envoy and the three they would create, both choosing and being chosen: the Touchstone and the Emissary.

Though landlocked, Camaria held Mama Ocean within. Though alone in the trees, she was surrounded by women, by mothers, in the ethereal presence of The Mother, herself. On the shore, bundled from the cool wind, the women softly conversed, passing speech back-and-forth, sitting on the boulders by the water, toes curled into the wet, as waves massaged the rocks into sand. The slightly warm rays blessed their heads, the sky a hard blue softened by the hazy, glowing late autumn sun. The moment held a promise, a stone in each bone cradle.

Low berry-filled bushes lined the shore, grew between the rocks higher up the beach. The fruit lifted themselves to meet the trickle of heat. They were full and waiting. They were full and waiting.

Go to The Man Who Plants Trees, said The Mother, though her thick downturned mouth did not move, speaking though her Ocean-blue eyes, the hands she turned palms up as if gesturing The Way.

When Camaria’s focus returned to the thicket, her moccasined feet were soaked through. Shivering a little, she pulled her coat more closely around her as the first flakes of snow alighted on her rich brown curls, each a unique white web before melting.

Go to The Man Who Plants Trees.
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Kage’s Nightmares
Breath expanded his ribs in ragged gasps, his mouth hanging open, blood dripping from his bottom lip, from his brow, his nose, everywhere—where did the blood start? Where did it stop? He blinked it out of his eyes, vision returning, bringing into focus the aftermath of his temporary insanity who lay beneath his own body, limp, tenderised as a slab of butcher’s meat.
The red haze dissipated. He looked at the body he still straddled. Even Iago waited until Kage came out of his rage to approach though he stood closer than the rest about 5 feet away. Not even the boy’s brothers and sister dared step foot in the ring. The crowd held their breath, blurred into the background. Kage realised his hands were still wrapped tightly around the boy’s neck where he’d squeezed, when he had moved from pummelling his face to slamming his head into the mat. And he slowly opened them, his bloodied fingers, releasing the boy’s head one final time to the worn floor of the ring. The boy did not breathe, his eyes slightly open, sightless, face a brutalised mess, nose broken at a nauseating angle, Kage’s thumbprints beginning to mark him, red and angry, blooming over his crushed windpipe. Kage looked at his hands, remembering, realising, and a sound rose from the depths of his belly, up his throat, sounded through his mouth as he threw back his head.
“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh,” he bellowed, a cry of victory, of survival, releasing the dregs of rage, tearing his throat with the sharp edges of the regret and sorrow that inevitably follow battle.
Kage’s screams travelled from his DreamScape to his Reality, and he sat up, eyes still closed, catching his accelerated breath, heart pounding his chest as relentlessly as his fists once did in The Ring. Camaria rubbed his back in a pool of moonlight that shone through their large glass window, having already been in the process of waking as her Beloved stirred and struggled beside her in their otherwise darkened bedroom. As he did every time he woke with this dream, Kage reached for Camaria, and she pulled him to her. Kage sunk into her warm and soft body, surrendered himself to her, a touchstone tethering him to this Reality, and his breath calmed as Camaria stroked his sweaty forehead.
Yet, he still could not speak it. What he had done. Who he had become and no longer wanted to be. He wanted that Kage as dead as Durus, the first boy he had killed, buried beneath mounds of dirt, the lid of the box tight, sealed, and concealed. And Kage shovelled more, more, more heavy earth on top, the consistent and constant effort exhausting. And the nightmares continued to come.
They were both 15, Kage and Durus, when the match was set. Pitted against each other their entire lives, groomed to hate the enemy, each the spawn and pawn of competing organisations bread and forged to sort out the pecking order. The Viper was determined to make the current state of opportunity into a monopoly—not an organisation, but The Organization. And that required war, that required combat, that required death for anyone who opposed, who would not subordinate to the will and the authority of The Viper.
Kage’s success in the ring and on the street would determine which scum would sit on top, which would enshroud The Citizens with its back, oily cloak. The Viper had only one son, and Durus was one of 5—four boys and one girl, all of them brutal and cruel—so Kage had his work cut out for him, as the odds were quite heavily stacked against him.
The death of Durus by Kage’s hand was only the beginning of the destruction of Maximus House once The Viper finally struck, and when he was finished with them—a mass shooting, a swift ambush, a bloody scuffle in the alley—only one son, Mordax, remained.
Once waged, Kage could not have survived the battle when he was a child and alone, and The Viper knew it. So, he planned, prepared, meticulous and calculating, waited for his son to become a man before he struck.
When The Viper’s Right Hand’s son Iago was born 2 months after Kage, and Kage’s mother so ruined that there would be no more children, the boy’s purpose was sealed. Though their meeting was planned, their friendship orchestrated, Iago became a friend, even a brother to Kage. Iago was not the muscle but the confidant, the hype man, the shrewd strategist, and Kage’s survival relied heavily on Iago’s unwavering loyalty that came from both duty and also love.
So, Kage still loved. In fact, it was love that kept him fighting. In this respect, Kage’s father had failed. The Viper thought love was Kage’s greatest weakness, but it was in fact, what fueled his greatest strengths. What looked like Kage’s descent into heartlessness was his all-consuming fear of loss, for love is not always expressed through nice deeds and gentle kisses; sometimes it’s through passion, protection, and when necessary, violence. And Kage’s violence was never cold, always burning, the tongue of the flames licking scars into the flesh beneath his skin.
Durus was a mean little fucker. The youngest of 5 and by far the worst. He had no redeeming traits as far as Kage could tell or anyone who had the misfortune of being in his path. He did not want friends, did not seek to be liked or even respected, he only desired to be feared, demanded fear with every bark and every bite. Durus had a wide mouth, a mocking maw that swallowed the joy around him. Sleeping Sickness dripped like drool from his thick lips when he opened his mouth to speak. Boys and girls hated him equally, and he relished in the hate, his pleasure imminent on his bulldog face while he instigated, goaded, leered, and traumatised.
Even his siblings—Mordax, Ferox, Malus, and Nervilla—disliked him, though they were loyal and helped him on countless occasions to cover up his crimes. At 15, those indiscretions had already escalated from bleeding out his neighbours’ pets to random acts of physical assault. Durus and his siblings had no need to hide such things from their parents, however, since it was their parents who’d created the monster, and they couldn’t have turned out a more perfect specimen.
Durus had a reputation for harassing girls, which Kage thought was disgusting, and he picked fights with anyone, boy or girl, he wanted to dominate. Of course, his favourite target was Kage. The Institution was where the children of the Upper Crust were sent to be schooled by day, so most of their time was occupied with surviving a warzone not unlike The Battlefields. Though Kage was the only person in the entire district who would not be bullied, Durus’ incessant antagonising made Kage’s time at The Institution a living hell no matter how buffered Kage was by his own friends or his ability to consistently push back. Most times they didn’t come to blows for they were warned by both of their Houses to wait until they were in The Ring. So the match was set.
But once, Durus almost broke through Kage’s tough skin when he sniffed out Kage’s interest in a girl when they were 13. Kage had snuck a kiss from the girl under the boughs of the thin-trunked trees that lined The Institution’s border—his first kiss, her first kiss, tender and sweet, a quick but enduring brush of their lips. And that was all Kage wanted, to carefully carry that one ember, content to go their own ways to their respective houses afterward with the implied promise of tomorrow.
The moment suspended in Kage’s mind as he lay in bed that night, sent him to the softest of sleeps, his hand raising to touch his lips where they’d met hers, his eyes closing as did the girl’s deep blue ones as their mouths touched. He had never known such tenderness, and it opened a strange, warm feeling beneath his hard cage of ribs. Not even the thought of the next morning's fight training could cool what warmed him that night.
Her name was Rosalia—intense, yet happy to recede into the background, her amber head turned down to whatever scribbling she was doing in her notebooks at the back of the classroom, her rosebud lips Kage shyly watched move as she read silently and marked the pages.
Rosalia’s aloneness protected her until it didn’t, until Durus spied she and Kage getting busy beneath the mangy hem of trees. Knowing now just where to strike, Durus found her alone on the playground swings that evening and assaulted her in the half-moon of bushes as the sun was swallowed by the dark along with her innocence. She disappeared from The Institution after that, she and her family dissolving quietly into the periphery of Slumber City.
Kage secretly inquired, but never did hear anything about her again except some speculation that she’d ended up dead attempting to enter the Eastern Realm.
“A tasty little thing,” Durus drawled the next day in the courtyard at lunch when he saw Kage searching the sea of faces, hoping to land on the one with the splash of freckles and the bluest eyes, the only beautiful gift in this place—and Kage knew then what Durus had done.
“You fucking animal!” Kage screamed as he lunged at Durus. It took everything Iago had in him to stop Kage from beating the monster to death right there. “What did you do to her?! I’ll kill you!” Kage hollered, young voice cracking, the conflict now gaining the attention of a few of The Institution’s Educators.
“Save it, Kage, for the ring!” Iago insisted as he put himself between them and grabbed Kage by the shoulders. “The organisations will only punish you. The rules!” Iago convinced, advised. And so he did—the rage, the hate, the violence—Kage saved it.
Kage decided that although he could not stop feeling it, he would not show love for anyone after that—this not being his first but a most painful lesson in how those he loved could be hurt by his failure to protect them, how dangerous it was to love anyone who was soft. The first lesson being the consistent strikes The Viper inflicted on his mother.
So, the venom, the violence, the danger that was Kage was really just a thick skin of protection, his burning heart squeezed in a pit of writing snakes who used the heat to warm their nest; Durus, on the other hand, had embraced, embodied brutality by abusing his own heart, becoming immune to hope, to joy, to love with every violent act he could never come back from. He learned to transmute regret and anguish into delight and arrogance, poor substitutions for Love and Safety but utterly indistinguishable to the untrained Heart. Kage hid his Heart; Durus maimed his.
Kage didn’t go into the ring wanting to kill his opponent, only win, to hurt and humiliate him; after all, the boys were only 15. But when when Durus fed shot after shot into Kage’s flank, when he delivered an uppercut that sent Kage reeling, his teeth biting deep into his tongue, when he delivered three quick blows in succession, one to each cheek and the third breaking his nose and Kage went down, when Durus straddled him, brought his jeering face close to Kage’s, spittle dripping, declaring his imminent victory:
“This is where you die, Viper spawn. I’ll have you whimpering for mercy like that sexy little redhead.”
It was then that Kage knew it was time to kill or be killed. To protect or to fail. To rise or to fall.
Quick and precise, Kage’s arm shot out and hit the boy square in the nose. Durus reeled back, disoriented, and Kage took his chance to twist and escape his straddle, to stand once again. Kage kicked the boy square in the gut with a channelled power, sending him back yet hunching forward, and when Durus lifted his glaring face, Kage delivered another kick to his chin, first snapping back the boy’s head, then the rest of his body to the mat.
The crowd cheered, a muffled roar, a mix of low tones filled Kage’s head, drowning him in distortion as his ears rang with senselessness.
It was then that down the twists of his insides, past the moist and rippling tubes that led to the bubbling acids of his stomach, the pill finally burst, the powdered red contents absorbed through his intestines, entering his bloodstream, overriding his sense of mercy, dulling his humanity, zeroing in on the only aspect of himself that could win this fight for his life, that could absolutely, unapologetically keep him alive: his demon.
He panted, jaw tight, blood-streaked teeth bared, and pounced (descended) on the boy. He would not be killed. He would win. Durus was down. Durus would stay down.
Kage knew he had narrowly beaten imminent death in The Ring that night. But that did not excuse the rage, the capability he had for violence, for killing, for hate so all-consuming that he didn’t at all recognise himself as he beat Durus to death. Love and Hate; two sides of the same coin. Snuffing Durus surely prevented more pain by the monster’s hand—the only way to stop a rabid dog was to put it down. But still…
After the fight, people started making way for Kage in the halls of The Institution, in the streets of the city. His name was whispered reverently as the rising sun of The Organisation. With every fight he won in The Ring, he came closer and closer to embodying his reputation—brighter, hotter, until it scorched his skin at 18 with the branding of The Viper’s tattoo. Kage had officially graduated from boy to serpent, from the training grounds of The Ring to the high stake games of the streets, handling his father’s dirty work—the maiming, the intimidation, sometimes the killing—an easy weapon to aim as The Viper worked skillfully at stripping Kage of his inner compass.
Ageing out of teenhood and into young adulthood, Kage’s duties in The Viper’s Organization changed. Henchman/intimidator/businessman/heir, the roles coiled around each other to create the legend that Kage would become. The Shinigami, The Shadow; his presence enough to make people pay up or pay the price. He became the god who decided who would live and who would die, except lacking the ability to bring the dead back to the living, a power he would wish for many times over in his life.
The perfumed and make-uped women of The Underbelly gravitated to him, wanting to syphon a bit of what he resonated—danger, rough edges, immortality. The men simply wanted to kill him or be him, Iago being the last of his circle to be considered a friend, who was content to be the Right Hand to the god of death, safe in Kage’s shadow—advising, influencing, holding Kage’s scythe for him, ready for when the time came for Kage to carry out his judgement or to release his consistent rage. Iago knew how to be the throttle, how to cool or fan Kage’s flames when it was necessary to do one or the other. He pulled the strings, he charmed the snake.
Life for Kage became lonely, and though love still fueled him, the number of people he loved began to dwindle until there were only five, until what he did in the name of love ironically crossed himself off that list no longer meeting his own criteria of worthiness. He would have to seek his worth elsewhere.
“Holy fuck, man, that was insane.”
“I killed him.”
“He would have killed you!”
“I know. But it doesn’t make it any better.”
“Don’t you dare let your father see you crying over that piece of shit.”
“I killed him. I didn’t even know what I was doing until it was over.”
“Surviving, that’s what you were doing….Kage. Kage! Look at me! He was going to kill you. That’s what that fucking family was trained to do. Not just to kill, but to kill you! You will get over this. You will survive this.”
His father nodded his cold approval but was silent in the black car on their ride home.
In the darkest hour of the night, Kage crept into his mother’s room where he cried with his head in her lap as she absently stared ahead and stroked his bowed crown. The silence, the stroking, the closest he would come to forgiveness.
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SECTION BREAK: KILO

Separation
“Aio Kilo,” Anahata said to him gently but not without impact, leaning in close and clapping him on the shoulder with one of his great bear paws, “go see Mani. It is time to move some stuff.”

It was three weeks after Camaria’s departure to the Western Realm, and the small group was sharing a pot of tea at the Breakfast House. The rest of the Elders in their company—Kalea, Adonis, Hector, and Duke—all made noises in agreement.

“I know this,” Kilo answered, sighing, looking down to the table then up to Anahata’s bright blue eyes then over to Kalea.

Camaria was gone. The wound her absence left was open and gaping, easily torn into the softness of such a young and tender heart—the snag of a sharp cat’s claw. And it stung unlike anything he had ever known.

Kilo wanted to tune into the Mindlinks, but something in him, someone, refused to pick up the connection. He would not be receiving the love he wanted in the way he wanted it, so he had been refusing any love at all. But it came anyway, the Love, despite the walls he put up, not being any good at building them, anyway, never needing a reason to.

Anahata smiled at him with understanding and deep compassion.

“Go, my boy,” Kalea said. “All is All Right.”

Kilo was angry with Camaia, and he had never, not once in their 18 years growing up together, felt anger toward her before. Patience and Grace always came easily for him, until now. So, this was a very strange feeling indeed. He knew that anger came from pain—this is a Truth that everyone Knows—but still his heart could not Understand as it bled from the thin tear with every beat.

He couldn’t succumb to the bitterness, a shrill and insistent call from the periphery. He decided he had to find a way to endure. He must learn what it was he was to learn from their separation, to accept Camaria’s choice. Her choice to leave. To leave him.
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Anahata
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I am Anahata, Son of Beauty and Love, Beloved to Kalea, Father of Caramia. I sing to the song of The HeartMender, and am a Friend and Lover to all.
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Honeymoon. Period.
When Molina was 3 months of age, Kalea and Anahata returned to their duties and privileges at Veil’s Edge; after touching foreheads with their daughter and Kage, tears in all of their eyes, they evanesced as elegantly as they’d come. Their love and tender devotion would be greatly missed, as would be their challenge, ingenuity, and strength; their simultaneous softness for Kage’s wounds and their insistence for his potential. Though they would continue to regularly meet their daughter in the MindLink and consistently communicate with her throughout each day through their golden threads and intonations, their physical visits would only be possible as Time permitted, as their presence at Home was integral to their community and to the purpose there.
So, Kalea and Anahata crossed between the realms, and Camaria and Kage settled into a new routine as parents.
They say when one becomes a parent, the days are long and the years are short, and this was certainly true for Camaria and Kage as they lived beyond The Fringe of the city and their family grew. Within 24 months, Molina was a big sister to Indigo, and three years after that, Camaria birthed their third daughter, Cressida. Having 3 children under 6 was all-consuming in the most blessed of ways, so over half a decade passed in a blink as they nourished, nurtured, and guided their girls.
Camaria continued her excursions into the city for provisions, to visit Zen, and to populate The Gallery, sometimes taking her daughters with her, yet only when it was safe. The city and the outskirts of their homestead was less and less stable as the conflicts between the factions ebbed and flowed, bottled and burst, smoldered and flared in a perpetual pulsation of war while never releasing the catalyst for it. There was not one family in the realm that had not lost a brother, a sister, a parent, or child to The War With No End; for some, they had lost all of the above. Murder was commonplace as was vigilantism and theft, The Organization grew stronger and more brutal, and The Enforcers harmed more than they kept any kind of order.
The moment their first daughter was born, Camaria finally Understood Kage’s fear that came with loving in the West, the innate instinct to protect, which of course required distance, boundaries, fences, borders, and sometimes armour. Camaria was a mother lion: instinctual and alert. Yet, she had no desire to fight or repel, to hate or to damn, so there was little choice but to retreat and keep watch.
Officers Joe and Wyatt managed to keep their posts at Camaria’s preferred Checkpoint for several years, getting to know the children with each passing through—Molina’s relentless/unflinching observation, Indigo’s vast yet clear depths, Cressida’s ever-ready fire. The men watched for them to come, and missed them when they didn’t. Camaria told the men stories about her daughter’s births, their naming, their antics at home, what they were learning, exploring, and becoming—how they challenged Camaria so with an endless, ever-expanding constellation of discoveries accessed only through the role of mother—revelations Camaria hadn’t even anticipated. Without any regard for pretence, Camaria spoke without hesitation to the men about subjects the CultureScape distorted, deemed to be taboo or better left to their separate realms—of women and of men, of mothers and of soldiers. Camaria hadn’t even considered such divisions, and so they loved each other despite the pervading belief that they should not.
Late one evening, Camaria left Wyatt hanging for some time on the coattails of the story of Indigo’s naming, how Camaria had been MindLinked to her cousin Ashlyn as she’d contemplated her new daughter’s essence. The backdrop of the story, where her cousin Ash was residing, were the purple skies and the deep river waters, a tributary to the Unending Ocean that ran between the twin cities of Sirius and Vega. She loved the way her cousin’s name, Ash, Camaria had told them, shhhh’ed from the mouth like a gentle hush to the troubled. So, it was in that spirit that Indigo was named.
And Cressida, fiery, fierce, and feisty from the start, born loud and triumphant one night under a great sheet of brilliant stars. Her intense nature, squarely planted in her “me”ness, drew laughs from deep within Joe’s belly. It was when Cressida was about the age of two that their visits became rare, even the country roads beyond The Fringe full of thieves and opportunists, and there were rumblings about the men’s displacement from their posts.
At Home, Camaria and Kage enjoyed the chaos of parenthood, each other renown as such, a new frontier of discovery of themselves and each other. Although his duties brought him to distraction at times and intervals, with every birth, Kage was his best Self, doting on his Beloved, bonding with each of his daughters. Yet…his contracts kept tugging at him, though they no longer served, as if his signature sold more than his time, signed in blood rather than ink. Perhaps they could have lived as Camaria had tried to convince him when they first fled the city…but it was much too late for that.
After Cressida’s birth, Kage’s duties with The Establishment intensified once more, the workload increasing, and he had a harder time managing both. Then one day, Kage changed. Placing her brushes down, and with a glance at Molina who glanced back at her from the clay she was shaping with her small but capable hands, Camaria immediately felt the shift in her Beloved down their thread before he slammed the portal closed.
Later that evening, Kage returned home from a rather long meeting in the city, pacing and snapping at Camaria who’d knocked at his office door, little Cressida on her hip, to implore; at Molina, abruptly shooing her from her spot where she usually made crafts in the corner of his office. That very evening, alone and constricted, Kage started stocking his mini-bar, unpacking the fancy decanters he’d brought when he’d left the apartment in the city, filling them and himself with pungent spirits.
Kage mused late that night having found the pseudo solace of a numbing nightcap while his girls slept. Perhaps he could not understand their world after all, could only be on the periphery like a fence on the edge, hemming in his garden of flowers. He looked over the yard, to the garden and beyond, his darkening gaze landing on the gauzy lights of the CityScape that cluttered his horizon. As soon as the liquid burned down to his stomach, it heated the slumbering and coiled serpent within his belly, poisoning his longing with resentment. And for the first time since Anahata and Kalea arrived at their back door, Kage sneered and scoffed at his life, mistaking this Reality, his Dreams, their Dreams, for delusion, which was of course, a lie.
The old patterns resurfaced, familiar, the old wire cutting, now more painful than if he’d never glimpsed what could have been, what it still could be if only he could hang on to it. But he could not, it did not fit into his worldview, what he’d learned about the world, about power and about hope. It could not last.
Kage had a secret, bigger than any he had ever held, and this one was unforgivable, even for his Camaria. She would surely detest him if she knew what he really was capable of. As he sipped his drink, he still could not erase the smug smirk on The Viper’s face when he left, as if his expression alone had said. I told you. You will never escape me.
So, that first night that he closed the door on his little Molina’s confused face, the hurt in her eyes squeezed his heart, and he almost opened the door again. But he couldn’t face them, not then, he needed to be alone as he supposed he was fated to always be. As he swireled the liquid in his crystal glass, echoes of Anahata’s words came back to him. And what Anahata had intended as a blessing, Kage’s conditioning twisted into a haunting.
“Take care of our Beloveds, Kage,” Anahata had said as the men sat before the fire, Molina sleeping in Anahata’s great bear paws, late the night before their departure, the babe but 3 months of age.
“That also means you,” he continued, blue eyes steady yet kind.
How could one convey such disarming kindness with simply a look, Kage marvelled as he did most days in Anahata’s presence. It still baffled Kage, such sentiments, not sure what to make of tenderness coming from another man. For a moment he wished Anahata was his own father, but he would not be good enough for such a man, he reasoned, underestimating Anahata’s capacity for love, misunderstanding the very meaning of the word.
You would not love me if you knew me.
I do know you, son. And I also know what you are capable of.
But Kage could not stop the words from twisting once again into images of bitterness, violence, killing, this time compliance…what he was capable of…but these distortions did not originate with him. And though he knew damn well what Anahata meant—his capacity for loving, for tenderness, for fathering—he could not, would not, believe that anything he could give or be would be enough to atone and deserve.
And Kage didn’t know what was worse: not living up to Anahata’s belief or living up to The Viper's.
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Book Jacket
Camaria lived and breathed in The Eastern Realm, a place of wonder, a garden of purpose. This garden had no walls; it was, in fact, wild and limitless, with its secrets quietly awaiting discovery as the blossom within the bud. At 18, Camaria was such a blossom when she felt the first pull toward a new purpose—a purpose in The Western Realm, outside of this magickal world that had nourished her from the moment she was born into it.
Veil’s Edge was not a place for protection but for possibility. And The Western Realm was the lidded box. Camaria was confused by this desire, this tug, this cracking kernel of curiosity because who would want to leave such a wondrous place as Veil’s Edge? Who would want to go inside when they were already Free? Yet Camaria wanted to feel more, to Know more, and so she peered through the keyhole at what or who was locked inside.
Camaria was a Seer, a DreamScape Artist, but she also felt the calling of the Envoy, the call to see the OtherWorlds. And one night as she sat atop the rock under the Wise and Knowing reflection of the Moon, she decided she would answer.
Meanwhile the people back Home who made up the constellation of the people of Veil’s Edge—her parents, her family, her Kilo—went about their highly unusual life as usual in the Realised Realm of Possibility, receiving and witnessing The Great Migration of people waking up from the nightmare of The Western Realm. They learned patience and the grace that comes with patience while preparing the bridge for Camaria’s return, for the return of them all.
What would The Western Realm rend from her, from the people of both the East and West—what colours would those be? What would they create together? What stories of beauty and loss, desire and pain, joy and Love, would they live and die to tell?
Pandora, she who bestows the Gifts of Wisdom, said:
Every loss is a breaking, every cry a revelation, every pause a balm. Every laugh is a revolution, every sigh a pivot, every tear a stitch. Every Truth—with no exception—is a gift.
This is Book 1. Part 1.
The Veil’s Edge books take readers on a wild and inspired ride through humanity, possibility, passion, and purpose. They will leave you laughing, dancing, crying, singing, and utterly transformed.
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Camaria Takes Kage to the Edge
“I’m sorry,” Kage said as they dangled their feet over the cliff bluff overlooking Bardo Canyon, just as she had done with Zen only a few days before. “About last night.”

They had set out early that morning to journey the 2 hours around the city to The Edge. They were largely quiet during their trek: considering, contemplating, stopping every so often at Kage’s insistence for Camaria to rest and drink some water.

“You were not yourself,” Camaria said, imploring his face, his lavender eyes bright and beautiful in the late morning sun.

“No, I wasn’t. I don’t even know what I said, but I know it hurt you. I have a lot on my mind,” he answered, voice heavy with regret.

“You worry,” she stated.

““Of course I do. About you. About her. But that’s no excuse.”

“No, it is not, but it is a reason.”

“How can you be so…forgiving? Why do you put up with me? My bullshit.”

“There is nothing to forgive. I am no victim of you. I choose to be here. With you. I chose this long before you took my breath away on the street.”

Kage smiled at that, let out a small laugh, and pulled her closer to him.

“Do you see it?” Camaria asked, looking ahead, and Kage’s gaze followed.

“See what? The canyon?”

“The East.”

“There is nothing on the other side for me,” he mused. “Westerners only experience death there.”

“Do you fear Death?”

“Me?” he laughed. “No. I have looked my own death in the face and sneered. But I fear your death.” He looked back to Camaria. “I fear losing you. You have made me fear in a way I haven't since I was a child.”

“I do not want to lose you, either. I wish for you to see The Way, a better Way, for us. You cannot yet see it, Kage. But in Time you Will,” Camaria asserted.

They were quiet for some moments, then as if he’d just remembered something important, Kage reached into his pocket and handed Camaria the red Papers. Camaria took them from him and inspected them, noting her name, her likeness, the number assigned to her, her #1 ranking, the seal of The Viper on the top right corner.

“You will be able to get your own provisions from the shops, you can even enter the diners and eat there,” Kage told her, “but I want you to stay away from those. But this still does not make you completely safe in the streets or if someone catches you alone and wants something that you have. So, you must still be careful, very careful, and only travel to the city during the day if you must go, which it seems I can’t stop you from doing.” He smiled then, despite his worry, at his growing understanding of her bravery, the fact that she was in no way the naive and delicate flower he once thought she was.

“Never, ever leave the house without these Papers,” he added, his face sobering. “They will check you at the Checkpoints, in the shops, randomly on the street corners, and you must have them on you at all times. You will be protected, even feared, if you have these to show them. Do you understand?”

What he must have done to get these Papers for her—and the fear he was suppressing in order to give her some semblance of Freedom. His emoting was strong, raw, pleading for it to be good enough. Please Camaria, let this be enough.

They were not, in fact, Free, despite Kage’s efforts, and they both knew it, but it was not Freedom Camaria desired. Though they were walled up in a courtyard like Zen, there was room enough for their blooming, a place for them to belong together.

For now, until The Way through The Bardo became clearer for Kage, this was the very best they could do. And Camaria intended to be awakened by every experience, to receive every moment as a rare and precious gift.
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The Crown of Tibet
Four weeks a Father now. Four weeks an eternity in a blink. It was Time. The Bond was strong enough now for him to depart; the Anchor would hold.
“I will be back soon,” Kai promised, smoothing the fuzzy peach down of Lila’s hair that sprung right back up as soon as his hand passed over. He kissed her already plump cheek. “Just a couple of days,” he said. Lila blinked her black orb eyes, a toothless smile spreading wide across her wee face for her Father.
“Ggggg,” she sounded from the back of her throat, and Kai hugged her close, breathing her in, her little arms at her sides not yet old enough to grasp.
“GrandMother, GrandFather, and Kilo will take very good care of you as they always do,” Kai said as he transferred the babe to The Ice Man’s waiting arms.
“Do what you must, Son; I respect your Way,” The Ice Man said to him, “but be sure to come back within the days promised. We do not plan on losing any more of our little clan, you know?” he commanded, unruly eyebrows and voice rising a bit. The babe, so used to her GrandFather’s timbre, his volume, that the small outburst did not startle her one bit, lay calmly in his arms watching him speak.
“I will return. To you all,” Kai promised again, this time to The Ice Man, Amara, and Kilo who stood in the living area of the main cabin for the departure. At the sight of them and the prospect of leaving, Kai’s heart bloomed with a heaviness not of burden but gratitude. The Love was so great that he rubbed his chest with it.
“Nothing could keep me away from you, my Home,” he concluded, bowing his head to his family.
“Cousin, are you sure I cannot escort you?” Kilo offered for the third time that morning.
“Thank you, Kilo, but I need to do this alone as everyone must. You understand. I know you do,” Kai said as he clapped him on the shoulder.
“Of course,” Kilo affirmed, nodding once, and he did.
He had made his choice.
So Kai flew even further North, then a little to the East, winding his way around the ranges to the rim of the Eastern Sage Mountains, the domain of the Sherpas: Tibet.
—------------
Kai landed at the southernmost shack on the edge of the small settlement and shifted back into his Human form. He entered the single-room guest residence to find a simple pack containing clothes and other provisions that had been left for him on the neatly made single bed. A candle sat atop a simple wooden table, a box of matchsticks beside the stone it sat upon. A wooden chair occupied one of the corners. A small black wood stove was stocked with logs ready for lighting, kettle on top, a pile of wood neatly stacked on the floor. The windows, one on each of the East and West walls of the square room, were clean and clear, opening to a view of the ascending slope to the West and the paths that meandered down into the forest to the North and the East. The air smelled of the timbre the cabin was made of. A bronze bell, a lone stick of incense, a box of tea, and a clay teapot with a single cup were the only additional items in the room.
Kai opened the pack and dressed himself in the garments: relaxed trousers, a woolen long-sleeved robe and single-pocketed sash over a raw-silk blouse and stiff collared shirt, all in their natural colours. It was chilly this far North despite it being summer, and he was glad to have the warmth of the clothing and the fire that he lit, the smoke that danced from the chimney signalling his arrival. Amara had intoned a message announcing Kai’s coming to the Sherpas a few days before. So, they were ready for him, quietly waiting to guide him to heights he had not even gone to in flight.
Kai’s thoughts during the flight to Tibet consisted of the usual contemplations: the why’s and the history; the loss and the grief; the death of his child, of his Beloved: the babe he wished he could see become a boy, a man, the honey-lips he wished to kiss even one more time. He contemplated the end: of his family, of the first world he’d ever known on The Rock, of his own existence.
Tallulah was ever present, and Kai suspected she always would be. She was his tether, his grounding, even now and especially in those early months after their first meeting when he’d lived alone in the first nest he’d built in the tree canopy of the mountain. He’d visited Tallulah, The Ice Man, and Amara in his Human form by day, returning in the form of a Raven to his roost for the night. He’d even flown South a few times to experience the heat, but he’d always come back to the crystal clarity, the frosty/clear mouth/lashes/lips/breath of Cold Mountain.
“Kai,” Tallulah said one day only a few weeks after he’d shown himself in his Human form, skinny, exposed, and naked in the fallen leaves. She was unsurprised by his nakedness, yet had swiftly covered him with her shawl. “This is silly. Why don’t you just live with us?” she’d invited. And he could not refuse.
So, the very next morning the Sherpas came for him, a man and a woman, quietly arriving just as Kai emerged from the small shack. He’d dressed in the cool space as the embers of the fire he’d left to dwindle in the night danced their last flickers, cups of tea freshly warming his belly, and the thick wool of his sashed robe sealing in the heat of his body. He’d covered his hands and feet with woolen cotton-lined mitts and boots and his head with a cap with flaps that dropped over each ear, tassels hanging from the braided tie strings. Though the day was almost blindingly bright, it would get colder as they climbed higher to the peak.
There wasn’t much chatting amongst the trio after they’d clasped one fist into the other hand in front of their chests, elbows up, head bowing in pleasant greeting. The man and the woman were dressed in similar attire to Kai’s, and both of his guides were significantly shorter than him, skin bronzed despite the lack of heat in their climate, narrow, close set moss-green eyes similar to each other’s. Kai thought they might be siblings. Yes, a Brother and a Sister. And they introduced themselves as _______ and ________.
Kai was grateful yet somewhat somber, internally readying for his journey, though he listened intently as the Sherpas instructed him on the practicalities regarding safety, climbing technique, the weather, and the state of the mountain. They were serious, sincere, wanted to impart caution with their tandem teaching, each giving the other but a moment to instruct, the yin and the yang, the positive and the negative, the full picture, gesturing to the mountain as they spoke of destinations and rest places, pointing to its peak as they prepared him for the climb.
“The weather may look calm down here, but the mountain exists in another system, another Plane,” the woman said.
“Do you see the clouds? There? See? The ones that are white at the top but look dark and heavy at the bottom?” she went on.
“Yes,” Kai answered as his gaze followed her pointing finger.
“It is snowing at the peak, and the clouds will not disburse for some time,” she told him.
“We have not had an avalanche for many years now, though,” her brother assured him.
“Yes, I agree…that has been a great relief,” the woman conceded.
“I do not sense any shifting snow, either, the ridges are not heavy with it, so I think we should make the trip without too much trouble,” the brother explained, as optimistic as ever.
“Not many from the Lowlands make it to the top,” the woman told Kai, yet not unkindly.
“They have not been conditioned to such heights,” her brother added.
“Many get altitude sickness,” the woman said.
“But not many succumb to the sickness…” her brother added.
“That is, unless they do not heed their body’s warnings,” she continued
“We do not wish to lose anyone on the mountain today,” the man said.
“So heed the warnings,” his sister finished.
“Not to worry. I assure you both…I know heights,” Kai simply said. “I will be mindful,” he assured them, although this did not mean he would be cautious as his quest did not involve caution. The Sherpas exchanged looks, but they did not question nor did they comment any further.
Having led many Travellers/Journeyers up the mountain, the Sherpas knew where to climb, where to rest, and when to stop before the altitude started to create havoc within the Human body. Kai patiently listened to them speak, each continuing to take turns with a few words of caution and reassurance, but all three of them knew—both Kai and his sibling guides—that Kai would do as he wished.
It was not for the Sherpas to assess or to assume, in fact, it wasn’t even for them to know anything except that a Traveller had come to climb the mountain. Every Traveller had their own reasons, why the mountain called them, why they answered that call. The Sherpas’ only wish was to do their best to keep them alive and well as they attempted the ascent to GaiaSophia’s Crown. Kai kept his reasons to himself.
So, they began the climb, the Sherpas unaware of what he was planning. It was possible, perhaps even likely, that they would not have let him attempt such a thing had they known.
Though the day was pleasant, the air grew thinner and colder the higher they hiked. The trail was not treacherous, though it did wind and turn around rock formations and impassable crevices. Flowers bloomed along the path, namely the conical gold-petaled ones with little scent yet, somehow, an abundance of personality. The intermittent clouds held snow in their bellies.
They reached the halfway point at midday, rested, ate some lunch, then set off again in hopes of reaching the camp site where they would rest, recalibrate, consider whether the Traveller would be able to handle the higher altitude, able to carry on to the summit.
The weather was merciful, the clouds not releasing their flurries until they reached the camp site and were almost through setting up their small tents and rolling out the thin bed rolls they’d carried on ropes slung crosswise over their shoulders. They made a fire, broke bread together, ate the rolls and dried provisions in virtual silence watching the flames dance and flicker, illuminating the growing darkness, as the Sherpas respected each Traveller’s space for contemplation.
“Are you well?” the man asked Kai.
“Yes, quite,” Kai replied.
“Can you breathe well? Do you feel ill at all? Is your mind clear?” ____ inquired. “We are at 7800 feet. It gets challenging once we pass the ridge in that direction,” she said pointing into the darkness. “That is the Choice Point, where some decide to turn back. The summit, a few hours beyond that point, tops the mountain at 11,000 feet.”
“I am quite fine, thank you,” Kai repeated.
“Climb to your own summit, Kai. Everyone’s is different,” the man said. “It is often at the very spot you are standing now.”
“Yes, I know this,” Kai assured them, recognizing his own words as an echo of Django’s when he and Kilo were cautioning him before journeying to The Timeless House of Time. This made him smile.
“What are you smiling about?” the man inquired, smiling a little himself, nudging his way into the joke.
“Ah, just remembering someone,” Kai answered, and they both smiled a bit wider, as that was enough of an answer for the Sherpa.
After yawns and good nights, the Sherpas retired to their tents, Kai staying with the fire as it dwindled and burned itself out. Hours passed, the stars shifted their places in the sky overhead, and when dawn broke, the Sherpas crawled out of their small shelters to find a note under a rock instead of Kai in his tent.
So, they settled in, tidied and cut back somewhat the unruly areas of the camp area, made conversation, played a game of Stones ___ always carried in his pocket…and they waited. For they understood the Traveller’s journey, and Kai’s words told them he knew what he was facing.
Thank you for your care and attention. You have taught me well. Please wait for me here. I must do this alone. I will return. I am hoping before night falls.
—-----------------
When he set out, it was three hours before dawn would break and the Sherpa’s would find the note and not Kai in his tent. Being used to the cool clarity of the mountains, the conditioning of his lungs through the work of breath, the regulation of the heat of his body through daily plunges into the cold with The Ice Man, Kai was ready for the altitude with the aptitude he hoped would enable his Human body to crest the peak.
The flurries had stopped at the time of his departure, and it was yet another brilliantly bright day; a few blooms of high clouds passed overhead, content to carry on their way. Birds of all breeds and plumage went about their business, some noticing him, others not, and Kai stood still for moments at a time watching the lesser hawks soar and screech before rousing himself again to move forward.
Amara had told him stories about the Great Hawks who were much larger than the smaller variation that swooped and circled about him as he hiked. They hailed from The Roost not far from Tibet, and Kai wondered what it would be like to encounter one, to ride on its great feathered back in his Human form; if even the small hawks caught his fancy with such rapture, gripped him as if willfully and willingly caught in their talons, then what impression would an encounter with the Great Ones leave?
He marvelled at their vision, their precision, their majesty, and though he knew he should not, he compared himself to them, both his slow and lurching Human, and his spaztic, ungraceful Raven…he let the worm of doubt wriggle itself from his beak and into his thoughts. He envied. He coveted. He wished…to be more like them and less like himself. If only Tallulah were here to convince him otherwise, to smooth his ruffled black feathers.
He wondered: was the view of the Hawk broader than his own? Was he the small Raven pecking at its eyeballs? Had he become a cataract? A distortion? An obstruction? He was soon to find out, and to do that, he had to disappear, to clear the cloud of his own small vision.
So, what the Sherpas did not know was that Kai had come to The Crown to die. To erase himself. To become invisible so he could finally See.
And See he did, mid-day when the clouds grew heavy and joined into larger masses above, mirroring his own internal world. He hiked higher, left the birds and their song behind, the aether condensing around him, his head beginning to pound with every woosh of blood through his skull, his brain squeezing with the pressure. His inner compass spun, his gut flipped and turned, sick with disorientation. He tried to thump the building/flooding fluid from his lungs, to relieve the discomfort of this transition just a bit. And when he rode the knife edge of panic, he considered shifting but determined to see his plan through, to follow this Way up which required him to go through.
Though he was certain that his feet remained on the path, and he was indeed still moving, he could not manoeuvre his body in the way he wanted, so he stumbled and then crawled the last few feet to the top. He felt the sensations of it all: the air, his breath, his life force, thinning, as he finally collapsed and lay on his back, choking, the world flexing/shuddering/pulsing in and out of focus. But the sky did not open; it darkened, along with his consciousness, as his outer eyes closed.
And then all was black, as it is with every end and every beginning. One moment within all moments. One stillpoint at the zero. For that moment, all was forgotten: his memories, his experiences, the journey he was on, himself…there was no pain nor judgement, no regret or queries…the question “why” no longer relevant. All was open to him and he to All…he was not human nor bird, not a body or personality…he was All and Everything. He was Soul. He was Love.
Yet, and yet, something called the fragments that made Kai back together. To be something, yes…to be someone.
Kai? The Voice said. Kai? it repeated, a little more insistent this time.
Am I dead? he answered.
Yes, was The Voice’s expected reply.
So, this is it, then? Kai marvelled.
Are you afraid? The Voice asked.
Not any more.
And as Kai lingered in death, his life came back to him in a ___ wave of sensation and emotion, in a story without sequence. He was overwhelmed with Love, awash in the tastes, smells, desires, experiences his most cherished—and the honey, his first taste of honey, sweetly held it all.
I wish to live, he breathed though he did not breathe.
Go then. Live. They are waiting for you…
It was then The Great Hawks spotted him lying limp and unconscious on his back in the snow—a pair of them, soaring in the sky. A woman rode one of their backs, fiery hair blowing like a flame behind her, silver eyes as sharp and intense as the great beast whose back she sat upon. A man rode the other, dressed in brown flying leathers that matched his companion’s, argent hair feathered up from his face like wings.
And though Kai no longer saw with his physical eyes, he felt the whoosh of great wings blow the black hair back from his brow, cap lost on the mountain at some point he could not remember. He saw himself being lifted, limp and lifeless, through their eyes, the Sherpas below who began their descent at the sighting of the Great Hawks and their passengers passing overhead, ending their patient vigil.
Cupped gently in his talon, the hawk carrying the woman also carried Kai’s body to The Roost, to see what could be done to warm and to heal the Life back into his bones.
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Leaving Zen
War and conflict shaped the people in the West—for years, for generations, for centuries—which was a persistent stain on the fabric of their world view. They were bound tightly in the CultureScape in which their Mama Matrix had them swaddled, kicking and fighting for a way out.

Kage felt that Camaria had her fair share of this Reality in the short time she was there already. And it was time they got out.

So, he started to pack Camaria’s few possessions, planning to move them as soon as his plan was in place—to get Camaria out of the city before the country house was even finished.

On the day before they were to escape/evacuate/exit/elope, Camaria and Zen sat cross-legged facing each other on the pebbles.

“Zen, will you be All Right?” Camaria asked when they finished their silent practice and the pink flowers rained down on them. “Kage says we are close to leaving the city. I will visit, but it may be some Time before I can re-enter,”
she said as she moved to sit closer to her friend.

“Yes, I will be All Right. They cannot enter here,” Zen said, reaching over to grasp each of Camria’s hands in her own. “Not because they respect or fear me, but because they are superstitious. Blinded by belief. Also because they do not think I am a threat to their cause.”

“And you are? A threat, that is?”

“Of course,” Zen said carefully. “Love, stillness…contemplation…are the death of war, the death of oppression, the death of suffering.”

“They think you are benign.”

“And I am in disguise as an insignificant beggar,” she smiled, a little sly fox behind her eyes.

“Please explain,” Camaria asked.

“They think I am poor and that poverty equals weakness, but their measurements are blind. They count my worth in beans and coins when I am the bean, I am the coin,” Zen said, eyes shining, then added with a squeeze of her hands for emphasis: “as are you, my dear friend. As are you.”

“I wish I could be there with you, for the birth of your little one,” Zen said as her expression saddened.

“I do, as well, Zen,” Camaria said, not pressuring her with any expectation to leave the safe walls of her Sanctuary.

“But I will be here,” Zen said as she touched Camaria’s forehead.

“And here,” Camaria said as she touched Zen’s heart.

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The Red Bullet
Kage could not deny the meeting, having been summoned from his country office by The Establishment who were following through with direct orders from The Empire and their Army. There was to be a demonstration of the new and improved formula of The Red Bullet’s effects on a human soldier, and since he’d been an integral part of its inception and subsequent development, Kage had no choice but to witness the consequences of what he’d had a hand in creating.
When Kage made the deal with The Viper to get out of the back alleys and pits of The Organization in exchange for his service with The Establishment, given his charm, cunning, intelligence, and experience in warfare, he had been tasked with the position of Chief Overseer of The Red Bullet Project. The Assignment involved the development of the propaganda that went out to the soldiers by way of brochures and pamphlets and to the citizens by way of advertisements and posters. He had toured the labs and chatted virtually every day with the scientists, his work being mainly behind the scenes, where in actuality was really the origin fuel for any creation.
Kage had written the speeches, spun the very words that then flooded the airwaves with promises for retribution, for glory, not for peace but for an end to the war through righteous victory. He knew how to speak this language as a war zone was no different than surviving The Organization, surviving The Viper.
Though at first Kage thought his Assignment would be the lesser of the Evils, the dark past he had with The Organization was nothing compared to this, so that, right there, was Kage’s most shameful secret, the factor that would earn him an eternity in Hell.
The meeting consisted of exactly 10 people besides Kage, 2 in lab coats, 2 in suits, 6 in military uniforms: 1 ranking as General and the other 5 as Commanders. Kage knew them all having worked with them in some capacity or another throughout the life of the project but had not seen any of them in 3 years having wanted to bury them in the boneyard of his past, or cast them out of his mind entirely and forever.
“Good afternoon,” the head scientist began once they were assembled behind the glass of what looked like a sterile version of the ring in The Pit. Kage didn’t know the scientist by name (or any of them by name), but by his code, SC41. “As we are all aware, when the first groups of soldiers were administered the original formula of The Red Bullet, there were some unexpected difficulties.”
Difficulties? Kage thought with an internal scoff.
“They experienced more neuroinflammation than expected and subsequently turned on each other and their commander, not being able to differentiate comrade from enemy.”
“It was a bloody mess,” commented one of the commanders.
“Not to mention the formula leaked into the cities,” a second commander added. “There is now a street drug that is less potent but mimics the effects. They call it The Red Haze.”
“Well, that cannot be controlled, although it does work in our favour to a great degree,” The General said, her face as hard as the heels of her shiny, polished boots. Kage had despised her from the day they’d met and struggled to hold his tongue.
“Yes, it was,” SC41 continued. “We have since changed the formula, and I assure you, that will not happen again.”
“You simply changed the formula?” Kage blurted. “You didn’t dissolve the project?”
“That’s correct,” the scientist answered, turning his attention to Kage. “We adjusted the formula so the soldiers will be formidable in all areas of skill, ability, and drive for survival, but now they will without fail obey their Commanders. Problem solved,” he said triumphantly, smug, expecting praise.
“Problem not solved! Am I the only one here who sees that the problem was NOT solved?” Kage said, fear/worry mounting, looking around the room for some indication of support. “You didn’t stop the distribution as I’d ordered?” he demanded.
“Much has changed, Kage, since you left,” The General said coolly, definitively shutting down Kage’s protest. “And you did leave the project to be a coin counter, despite repeated warnings about what might happen if you did. The project went ahead. New orders were issued upon your departure,” she went on.
“You're lucky we still had use for you after your little tantrum,” she both stated and warned Kage into silence.
“Can we begin the demonstration now?” SC41 said, not phased by Kage’s outburst but more impatient to get the show on the road. Kage never liked that fucking guy, either.
The scientist motioned to an officer Kage hadn’t noticed until then who was waiting down in the pit for his orders. The officer opened the cage, and two other officers brought in a ragged but rather strong looking woman who had her hands bound behind her back. She wore a sleeveless shirt and cargo fatigues that showed off her muscular physique, her dusky hair drawn back in a lacklustre ponytail, and she looked every part the soldier—but something about her drawn face, the way she shuffled into the room, hunched and broken, indicated that she was not well.
“The pill has been administered,” an assistant scientist, SC84, reported to SC41 who nodded as the rest of them watched two more officers bring in a man, also bound, his tattoos an indication of his affiliation with The Resistance. A prisoner of war, Kage deduced, and his stomach churned, his unease intensifying. What the fuck are they doing?
“It should be any time now,” SC41 announced to the group and tapped on the glass for the officers to hurry up and get out of there. Speeding up their movements, they untied the opponents and left the room, locking the cage behind them.
The large man started circling, knowing what was to come; the female soldier seemed to be in a stupor, uninterested, flat…until suddenly she straightened, her muscles bulged as she balled her hands into fists, and her dull eyes ignited, went cherry red.
What happened next was something Kage wished for the rest of his days that he could somehow burn from his memory, his mind, his psyche, his Heart; he had never witnessed anything so brutal in all his days on the streets or the fighting rings of Slumber City. Impressions of Berserker, MayDay, Rocket, Ghost, City Boy, and Oberon branded and gouged the scope of his Knowing; and when it was finished, the man was more than dead. The female soldier panted, bloodied, panned the ring for something else, someone else to kill until she located the gun that had been planted in the corner of the room and picked it up.
“Now!” SC41 ordered/called, and one of the officers entered the cage, his own gun drawn and ready to fire, and the female soldier turned her whole body to face him. But at the sight of him, she turned the gun on herself, pointed it to her own head.
“Stop! Down!” the officer commanded, and to Kage’s amazement, she dropped to her knees, placed the gun on the ground and her hands behind her head, laced in the posture of surrender. Her eyes rolled and lip still pulled back baring her bloodied teeth, but she stayed, she stayed down.
“You see?” SC41 announced, almost giddy, as if he were just as surprised as the rest of them that the demonstration went as planned. “She will not kill her own, and when overdosed will turn the gun on herself if she has no enemy to fight.” Although Kage was sure the rest of them were more prepared for what they’d just witnessed, both of the suits looked as shaken as he.
“I’m just glad they’re on our side,” one of them said, meaning that statement with sincerity.
“Put her back into the cell. She can have some food and water,” The General ordered the officers who were handling the female soldier who limply let herself be bound and led away. “And clean up the body,” she ordered the remaining two who had brought the Resister in. “That is enough for today.”
“Who was that soldier?” one of the suits asked.
She was in the company who went berserk and took down their Commander near Salem. She was the only survivor, but already quite damaged from the overdose. She was returned to this base for rehabilitation, and we have managed to keep her alive,” The General told them.
“And you think this was a favour?” Kage demanded, incredulous.
“That means she can be rehabilitated?” the other suit interrupted.
“She will not be returning to society, no,” SC41 answered. “Her brain has sustained significant injury.”
“She can’t live like that,” Kage protested, the image of her being led away playing and replaying in his mind.
“We could put her down if you would prefer,” The General challenged.
“I have to get out of here,” Kage said and walked out of the room. As soon as the door was closed and he was out of the range of the cameras, Kage breathed through the retching. He would be sick right there, so he stood up straighter, lurched the rest of the way to the bathroom where he propelled himself into the stall and emptied his guts. The buzzing started in his head, his ears, got louder and louder, then the world went black.
After Kage woke on the cold floor near the toilet and recovered himself, he accepted a ride home from one of the suits, was assigned one of The Establishment’s 10 cars. He rested his head on the cool window, watching the landscape pass the whole way back. As they drove, they received the radio transmission, straight from The General, herself. They would be pulling the trigger on the “new and improved” Red Bullet as soon as they were finished encapsulating and packaging—releasing the deadliest of projectiles into the unsuspecting world/realm. That information would remain classified. Breaching that command would result in the penalty of death.
Kage crept into the house and passed he and Camaria’s bedroom to close himself in his office. His hand shook as he reached for the bottle, filled his glass with the only thing he could think of that could make the tremors stop.
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GrandMother Eagle
GrandMother Eagle did not join the gathering until the Moon hung like a jewel from the earlobe of the listening sky, where it eclipsed (____ something like that to indicate an auspicious celestial positioning), and the 4 pitfires were high and bright with flames.
She arrived alone and on her own Time, a small woman in stature, with thick, loose, dusky skin the colour of buckwheat honey. Her silvered hair was unbound and fell in layers to the wings of her shoulderblades, bangs swept sideways across her deeply lined brow. She was adorned with rich brown and cream white feathers clipped to her crown, to her nape, suspended/fluttering/swaying from her ears. She moved without urgency, with patience and presence, no indication of discomfort or limitation. Her long tan dress touched the tops of her moccasins that were intricately beaded with emerald humming birds. Though she moved slowly, Kai knew she could move much more quickly; she was not old, she was Ancient, embodying the Mystic Wisdom of Ages.
She carried a woven basket in the crook of her right arm the contents of which Kai could not quite make out, though some of it may have been food or herbs, and he suspected there were more treasures nestled inside/beneath. Though all three of Lyra and Furkan’s children jumped from their seats exclaiming, “GrandMother Eagle!” it was Emery who was the first to intercept and guide her to where their parents and Kai anticipated them by the Northern Fire, and made the introductions.
“Hello, GrandMother Eagle,” Kai said standing to greet her, enchanted and humbled in her presence. GrandMother smiled somewhat slyly/knowingly/satisfied when she noticed Kai curiously glance to the basket then flick his attention back to the Ancient woman.
“Hello, Kai,” GrandMother Eagle replied, low and light. And Kai felt suddenly and simultaneously exposed and understood, curious enjoyment flooding his senses when he surrendered to the Truth of what GrandMother saw/inspired/emitted.
“Please, sit GrandMother,” Furkan invited, offering her a spot on the three-seater high-backed bench they had reserved and lined with a cushion.
And slowly she sat as did Kai and Lyra in their own chairs. Enzo brought her a plate of food, Furkan placed a small table in front of her to set it on. Emery and Valencia nestled close into her soft sides. It was not until all were settled and able to enter a more intimate conversation that Kai noticed her eyes—which were deep socketed and generously hooded, black and backlit, the light emanating from behind, from within, rather than mere reflection of the flames.
“Kai arrived here just yesterday,” Lyra offered the Ancient woman as she ate, and Kai briefly marvelled at how much had transpired over such a short period of time.
“Yes, I have heard about your landing,” GrandMother replied shifting her attention to Kai, Emery beside her looking a bit sheepish, expression giving away the information source. Picking up on Emery’s brief shrinking, GrandMother discreetly encircled the girl with her arm and added: “it is exciting to share a new story and a new Friend.” And all in the Circle smiled and agreed.
“Plus, she already knew,” Emery quietly added then shrunk into GrandMother’s side once more.
“GrandMother Eagle knows everything!” Enso exclaimed.
“GrandMother is the Eagle,” Valencia asserted, perking Kai up more than he already was.
“Are you a Shifter?” Kai asked GrandMother, intrigued, excited, curious.
Grandmother Eagle eyed him for a moment, thin grey eyebrows raised over her deep-set eye sockets, and said: “wouldn’t you like to know.” Then her mouth turned down in thought, eyes bright with mischief, drawing her loose dusky skin down from her high cheekbones before she spoke again.
“I see things. From high,” was her tempered response to Kai’s inquiry.
“Mmmm,” Kai managed to respond, suddenly plunged deep into the meaning of her words.
“Do you not fly, too, Kai?” GrandMother asked.
“Yes. I am a Shifter, my second form being that of a Raven.”
“And do you See from up High.”
“I did somewhat before, but now I See even more. Since flying with The Great Hawks," Kai answered, glancing at Lyra.
“And are you curious to know what the Eagle Sees?” GrandMother asked.
“Yes, GrandMother. Please. If you would show me,” pocketing his response, Kai knowing they would circle back, GrandMother continued.
“What was your Quest, Kai, when you journeyed to Tibet, The Crown, Ending to end up here at The Roost?”
“I suppose I am on a quest for reconciliation,” Kai answered, the answer easy having thought long and hard then soft about this. “I was on the cusp of understanding the Why of death but could not quite grasp it. So I went to the mountain to die.”
“And to be born again with new eyes,” GrandMother finished.
“Yes.”
“And what about All Eyes?”
“Yes, there is that, GrandMother. I feel those are your eyes.”
“Are you ready to know what those eyes see?”
“Yes. I am ready,” and again, before the reveal, GrandMother pocketed his response and went on.
“You are a SoulUsher.”
“I believe so.”
“You see behind, ahead, and beyond.”
“Yes, GrandMother Eagle.”
“And that has been a burden."
“Yes.”
“And very painful.”
“Yes.”
“Have you Seen the blessing?”
“I know there is one, but no, not fully yet. I have flitting glimpses but they do not stay. Even though I have died, a smudge still remains.” A beat passed between them before GrandMother continued.
“Many only see with their singular vision. Yet when we ride with the Great Hawks, following and creating the winds, the endless winds, we see more from these great heights, we See what the Hawk can See. Yet, there are still higher winds, higher currents of the Soul. We feel them and ride on their tails, but cannot always see the Source. This Seeing is The Vision of the Eagle.” As sharp as he was, it didn't take long for Kai to respond.
“My Vision is what I perceive. The Hawk Eye View has many previews but each with great clarity, a micro focus. The Eagle expands and contracts to See The All,” Kai said, “I understand this, GrandMother.”
“But do you Innerstand it? Can you apply it to your own existence?”
“I can try.”
“Like the Eagle, you must weave your way in and out of focus, pan in and out to the small and The All, Into each unique life and Outto Life itself. It can be as simple as breathing.”
And this was when Kai fell into the black pools of Grandmother Eagle’s eyes, to the very source of the Light itself. A brief shock/bolt of emotion awakened his Solar Plexus—to be so close to The Source—and he realised that she was granting him the great honour of the Sight—for a moment, for a LifeTime, for All Time.
Yet it took no Time at all as the effect was quantum, but if it had, if Time were stretched for the sake of experience, it would have looked like this:
Everything ceased from existence—Furkan and Lyra, the adults and children who laughed and conversed, the stone-floored courtyard that held the longhouse they entered and exited with plates and cups in hand—only the fire and its warmth remained…and of course GrandMother’s voice, which had dropped lower, rich, provocative yet not quite comforting, bordering the consistency of monotone, drawing Kai into the One Note.
She/It/the Experience was OtherWorldly, All Knowing. As she spoke, the Story of All Stories unfolded as they flew not only through experience but through Time itself, into no time, the scenes played out below them, memories of the past, the present, the future, of simultaneous lifetimes and streams of Time…Kai’s story in the One Story, Tallulah’s story, Little Raven’s, Lila’s…none of them ending, forever in their middles…and every time Kai tried to grasp them, they shifted with his movement…
…and just when Kai thought he would fly apart, he found himself soaring, weaving out and then in, in and then out, as he took control of his breath. Kai and GrandMother Eagle alighted in the Liminal to orient and recalibrate, and from there Kai found he could access The All, one breath at a time, the overwhelm of trying to grasp what cannot be contained blowing away in the breeze.
Yet the story kept coming, merged together into the All Story, GrandMother's voice changing, shifting with the telling, Kai’s extrasenses awakening to new heights, until he realised at some point that GrandMother Eagle was no longer speaking, that The Voice, in the end, was his own.
A bit surprised but unable to stop now, Kai carried on speaking, The Voice that was his Voice, coming also from his own mouth now…
“We fly through time and may predict where we are heading, yet if the tiniest breeze blows, nothing is as it was going to be,” Kai continued. “There is a Liminal, the In-Between where all Realms intersect; there is a SpiritRealm that is not governed by Time; Life and Death are fluid; there is no end, only transformation, taking one form then another, the energy that is the Soul packed into Form, of having existed and existing now and always existing. We overlay Time and Space to this experience, we give the Soul a journey, a Story so we can track its existence.”
“SoulUshers must Weave Time,” GrandMother interjected. And Kai saw, he Saw his Loved Ones existing Everywhere and in All Ways. And the Stories were beautiful.
“Would you go back, Kai? If you could. Knowing all of this?” GrandMother asked, and Kai realised that he was simply at a Choice Point.
“I could not. And I would not. Nothing is the same Way twice.”
“I did not think you would,” GrandMother answered, satisfied with her pupil’s Innerstanding, “no one ever does.”
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Charlatans and Evangelists
Very superstitious, wash your face and hands,
Rid me of the problem, do all that you can,
Keep me in a daydream, keep me goin' strong,
You don't wanna save me, sad is my song

When you believe in things that you don't understand,
Then you suffer

Superstition ain't the way.

—Stevie Wonder

—-------------

Camaria sat on the curb listening to the man in dirty grey robes across the street shout to The Citizens passing by. He was largely ignored by the stream of people on their way to Duties, to Work, to Lessons where The Establishment produced their Weapons of Mass Instruction.

The dishevelled wild haired man had situated himself beside the line for provisions that stretched the entire city block. He knew that in doing so, he would invariably reach everyone in the city if he stayed there long enough, for everyone required provisions to survive—water, food, toiletries. The Evangelist was an opportunist, and he was there almost every single day.

He was a sight to behold, and Camaria was fascinated by the conviction with which he spoke, the words that spewed from his mouth along with the spittle. His bony knees intermittently flashed themselves from beneath his robe as he paced the street, his groyne area covered with some kind of cloth wrap.

Evangelists were a sort of independent, unanointed, unauthorised Redeemer. The Redeemers were officially appointed to the Churches to install the moral and religious teachings of The Establishment that bore down on the people from those on high. Those on high—The Zealots and The Empire—shared a most luxurious bed from which they birthed The Beliefs, The Deplorable Sins, The Steps for Redemption enforced by The Establishment and paid for by the coins plunked in their golden collection plates.

The Redeemers’ sermons were intense and full of conviction but meticulously organised, delivered in the authoritative settings of churches and lecture halls, places that held potential for awe but were instead misused to encourage intimidation.

The Evangelists were considered to be nutters, and their mutterings about The Establishment went largely ignored. But when it came to the codes that were programmed into the Citizens, their messages were largely identical to The Redeemers’—for they also reinforced The Beliefs, The Deplorable Sins, The Steps for Redemption—only The Evangelists were unpolished, reactive, which made them quite ugly, unpalatable even.

So, The Establishment largely left them alone, the Enforcers only chasing them away with their swinging batons if they got too overzealous or caused more than a bit of stirring in the crowds. The nutters could be dismissed, The Redeemers were to be obeyed; one claimed to know the dangers of Hell, the other to how to survive there. But gaslit and convinced by both Evangelist and Redeemer, everyone remained in Hell, regardless.

“Do not sail or place a toe into The Black Unknown—for if you dare, your ship will sink, you will drown, and if you don’t drown, the sea monsters will get you!” the wildman professed.

“There is only one God!” he continued. “The things you worship are not God! And you will burn in Hell if you commit idolatry!

“False God! False God! False God!” he exclaimed.

“This includes The Redeemers!” he said in a loud whisper to a group of youth walking by. “Do not believe them! They are not gods!” he said, raising his voice to a louder whisper.

“Get lost, you crazy twat!” one of them spat at him over his shoulder as they passed. The group laughed as they continued down the street, and the wildman didn’t seem to be affected by the insult and simply carried on with his rants.

“What do you believe in?” the wildman called to the youth who continued to walk away from him. “What do you belieeeeve?” he implored, bushy eyebrows lifted, stopping for a moment in the street to watch for any response.

The smallest of the group, the one who was not laughing, turned back, face serious, the apathy there a hardened mask, and said one simple word before they disappeared down the street:

“Nothing.”

The wildman paused for a moment or two muttering “nothing…nothing…nothing…” to no one but himself, then returned to his hollering.

“You must not partake in the Deplorable Sins or you will be judged!” he yelled to varying people in the line or in the streets who were unfortunate enough to catch his attention.

“Your Pride!”

“Your Greed!”

“Your Wrath!”

“Your Envy!”

“Your Lust!”

“Your Gluttony!”

“Your Sloth!” The last one he cried into the face of a mother who put herself between the nutter and her son.

“Repent, repent, repent! Or buuuuuurnnnnn!” he yelled aloud to no one, to everyone.

Hear me, he seemed to say. See me. I am afraid and so should you be.

Abruptly the man’s sweeping gaze stopped as he spied Camaria watching. His eyes zeroed in, focused, then bore into her. He pointed a shaky finger in Camaria’s direction.

“You! You there!” he called to her.

Camaria was not rattled by the attention he demanded— a caged wildman shaking the bars—not even when he hurried across the dusty street to address her. She stood to meet him but did not flee. His small grey eyes narrowed and widened with the emotions that warred in his mind, flitting from thought to thought even though those thoughts were on repeat. His mouth worked at all times even when he was not speaking, forming words and sounds or simply the expulsion of air.

Camaria tuned into the buzz of questions that the people walking by, the people waiting, the people skirting or bumping past, intoned: Who am I? What am I? What is the purpose of this Hell? There were many many other questions, but these were the ones most grappled with beneath and above all the rest.

The wildman’s ravings only pushed them further from the answers, which were, of course, not his reason for his rantings anyway. He did not intend to enlighten them but to warn them. Because what did those answers matter if you were damned or dead?

He was a wildman, but not dangerous. He was also not a wise man, because what charged his ravings was the fear he spread like the dirty leaflets he tried to force into Camaria’s hands. For fear can motivate, and it can keep one safe. Camaria knew he meant to help though he judged and damned and condemned his way up and down the street.

“Fear themmmmm,” he said to Camaria.

From down the same side of the street where Camaria and the wildman stood locked in their brief exchange, music started to play. It was the kind of music Camaria heard at a carnival Kage took her to some weeks ago—warped and stretched, sad and dark beneath the playful overtones. They both turned to where the sound was coming from, and then another voice—this time weathered, husky, and female—proclaimed:

“Come for a trip Beyond the Veil! Get out of the grime of your mundane existence! Find happiness, find love, find ecstasy, find pleasuuuure…” she purred the last word to a young man pushing by her in the crowd.

The woman who had taken up shop the next corner over was perhaps a generation older than Camaria, her pink headwrap and skirts faded and worn, but clean. Unlike most of the people who could not afford or did not bother with such things, her yellow eyes were rimmed with coal, eyelids carefully painted a sparkling cobalt blue, her lips stained the colour of pomegranate flesh. She carried a satchel which undoubtedly carried her potions. The music floated from an ancient-looking music box she’d set on a windowsill.

She continued to call, to offer, to purrrr her promises. Her potions would not take them beyond, not Really, and everyone knew it, but some slowed anyway, stopped to purchase, pocketing for later their temporary trip to the sweet oblivion of Nowhere. Until they woke empty and dull, then followed the sounds of her music again the next day. And the next. Always seeking tomorrow, a sweet escape from today.

Distracted by the red-lipped woman who was now completing a deal with two young women about Camaria’s age, the wildman quickly lost interest in Camaria and skittered down the street waving his arms:

“Shut up, shut uuuuup, Charlatan!” he yelled, spittle virtually frothing now as he ran at her, the girls hurrying off with their score.

“Don’t listen to her!” he screeched to the onlookers. “She will lead you to your demise! There is only death Beyond the Veil. There is only death in her blue pills and potions! Beware!” he cried. “It’s not safe! She will poison you!”

Camaria marvelled at how this wildman could speak the Truth and also such untruths at the very same time. The Charlatan simply smiled and sashayed further down the street.

Two Enforcers, a tall, sinewy woman and a short muscular man, rounded the corner behind the Charlatan, likely having heard the commotion. They passed the Charlatan with nothing but a short nod, gunning for the wildman as soon as they spotted him. The wildman turned back to Camaria’s direction to escape when he saw that both Enforcers had drawn their batons and tasers. They chased him down the street, past Camaria, and into an alley.

He did not escape, for Camaria heard loud shouts, thumping, and more than a little commotion. By the time Camaria realised they were likely using those sticks on him, it was over. In seconds.

“False Gods!” he cried one last time. Camaria heard a loud crack and a sizzle as she hurried to follow them to the alley, followed by a sickening silence.

“Get out of here girl, or you’ll be next,” The female Enforcer growled at Camaria when she turned into the alley, approaching and pushing her back with the tip of her baton. Camaria only retreated a few steps but didn’t leave. The Enforcer, not overly concerned about witnesses, turned to assist her partner.

Each taking his weight, the man taking the wildman under his arms and the woman gripping his legs, they roughly deposited him in the alley, not even bothering to put him on the cardboard beside where he lay askew and unconscious on the crumbling pavement.

“Keep it under wraps next time, nutter,” the female Enforcer sneered at the wildman’s still form. Immediately after those words were uttered, a new commotion of shouts began on the street.

“You hopped the line!” accused a female voice.

“I did not!” a male voice protested.

“Get back there!” demanded a different male voice.

“Fucking vermin!” the male Enforcer swore to his partner, top lip curling. “Can’t even stand in a fucking line.”

“Let’s go deal with it, then,” the female Enforcer said, smacking her baton into her palm.

After they were gone, Camaria approached the wildman who was now bleeding from a small gash on the side of his head, his hair already sticky with blood. She bent to tend to his wound, to his wounds, on both the inside and outside, and closed her eyes—her hands outstretched, a healing extension of her heart.

As she worked, witnessed and mended his pain, as the chaos continued in the street beyond the alley where she crouched, the wildman’s voice echoed in her mind:

“Fear themmmm…Fear themmmm…Fear themmmm…”

Yes. Another fear had manifested.

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Worthiness
As she lay in bed in Kage’s arms, head resting on his chest, Camaria struggled with the many questions that coiled themselves tightly around her mind.

“I’m working on acquiring a house in the country,” Kage announced. “Soon the deal will be final. You can live there with me and leave this hole of an apartment.”

“What is wrong with this apartment? It has all I need.”

“Camaria,” Kage, laughed, “it’s a dump. Everything is used. And in the poorest district of Slumber City. I bet if you look outside the window right now, you’ll see some kind of drug deal going down in the alley,” he went on, wrapping her more tightly.

“Yes, likely,” Camaria mused. “That is most unpleasant. But the people are hurting. That is why they do those things. To stop the hurting. And I like the apartment. I like the feeling left by those who have ‘used’ it as you say.”

“Why have used when you can have new?” Kage asked, incredulous.

“Why have new when you can have used?” Camaria countered. Kage laughed, again. This woman.

“But the country, what did you say about it?” Camaria asked, shifting a bit to look up into his face where he lay. Kage released and lifted one of his arms to place his hand behind his head, the other stayed beneath her wrapped tight around her waist.

“There are trees and forests, no cars, no tall buildings, or even houses for acres around.”

“It sounds a lot like the wilds of home. Where I live, we do have neighbours, but we live in settlements, not in what you call cities, but there are cities in the East, just not where I live,” her eyes turned up slightly in thought for a moment as she formulated how she was to describe her world to him.

“We have privacy and nature but also each other nearby, just around a bend or a copse of trees, across the river, or down the road a mile or two. Our houses are modest but splendid,” she reported, closing her eyes for a moment with the warmth of the memory.

“Well you won’t be living in any hovel where we are going, I assure you.” Camaria opened her eyes to look at him, again.

“Hovel? No, Kage, I said modest. Cosy. My uncles make the most beautifully crafted homes. Nothing is wasted. Everything means something.”

“I make enough money to have the finest house built for us. With a lot left in the bank for more.”

“More?”

“Yes, more. Jesus Christ, Camaria! What don’t you understand? This is what work is all about! Making more money.” His outburst shocked her, so she sat up to face him, brow knitted once again.

“Why do you need more money? To keep it in a bank? It makes no sense. The Universe will always provide.” The blanket fell from her chest with the movement, and she made no move to cover herself. Kage softened at her innocence. But the Truth in her questions were lost on him, and he only smiled at her, thinking her questions adorable and not serious. Sweet Camaria.

“Trust me, Camaria. You need more than this,” Kage scoffed, placing his other hand behind his head.

“Why are you laughing, Kage?” Camaria asked with genuine curiosity. “In the East we have no use for money.”

Instead of answering her, Kage sat up and peppered her with his own questions, probing for holes to prove her wrong, which he had always been taught to do to maintain his worth.

But Camaria was not offended or perturbed by this and simply responded to his probing.

“How do you get things if you don’t use money?”

“We receive them.”

“How do you accumulate wealth?”

“We do not seek that which we already have.”

“How do you protect what you have? There must be thieves.”

“What are thieves?”

“Seriously, Camaria? Thieves are those who take from others.”

“We do not need to take what already exists in abundance.”

“Camaria, that’s absurd.”

“Would you take an orange from another if you had an orange tree in the garden?”

“You must prepare for times when there isn’t enough.”

“We always have what we need.”

“Yes, well who makes it for you?”

“We learn the skills, we make it ourselves.”

“What about houses, food, surely you don’t know how to do all of those things yourselves?”

“We help each other. When we need help.”

“And what if no one helps?”

“They always do.”

“But what if they don’t?”

“Then that thing didn’t need to be done. At least not then.”

“Here we pay people money to do things for us. They are called jobs.”

“Why would you trade paper and coins for things you could simply do?”

“So you waste the whole of your days labouring, building your own houses, chopping your own wood, carrying your own water.”

“What else is there to do that is more important?”

Kage scoffed at that, unable to grasp a world where the very reasons for his own existence ceased to Matter.

“Kage, we are not idle. We prepare food and build houses. We carry what is necessary on our backs, but nothing more as the burden need not be heavy.”

Not satisfied with her answers and frustrated with his inability to tear down her vision, to distort what he dismissed as Sweet Camaria’s delusions, Kage’s next question came out more like an accusation:

“So you live like beggars? Living like simpletons.” Kage spat as he rose from the bed and started to get dressed.

“No, Kage,” she answered, her eyes following him with a hint of confusion, trying to feel into him. “We need not beg. We simply live.”

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MindLink
Are you there, Aios? Acharya? Elders? Kalea sent. Please be still, wherever you are, and tune in to our tapestry of entanglement.

Envoys, we are ever present with you. We cannot be separate, for we are woven into Indra’s Net—each of us an eye, a jewel, a bead of water that ascended from the Ocean and dropped from bursting clouds, distributed through the sky to water the thirsty earth where each of you sit.

We re-member you, we hold you, we anchor you.

Camaria sat alone before the emerald-flecked fireplace in The Apartment in Slumber City, feeling the anchoring presence of her Uncles and Aunts—Hector, Adonis, Jazz, and Octavia—who had gathered outside the now quiet Breakfast House.

Aria, Yara’s sister and Duke’s Beloved, began to play her cello from where she was residing and studying in the Canon Settlement. Duke was walking through a labyrinth of trees, Alexander and Fia sat side by side on the dock overlooking ___ Lake.

Erris had been sitting in deep contemplation already on the edge of The Orchard on The Other Side of Eden ready to receive and participate, Hoku’s presence felt from where he paused and pivoted from his duties at the Veil’s Edge Healing House.

Lyra perched in a squat on the rooftop in Salem, hands together in prayer before her heart; Furkan seated himself, sweaty from Movements, on a mat in the Preparation Yard.

Ashlyn tuned in from the eye of the stone courtyard at the centre of the three pyramids that made up The Upper Room. Yara astral travelled to the Sky Lounge beneath those same familiar skies, the forever shifting indigo canopy.

Angel and Grace, back to back in the bumping wagon, threaded their shackled fingers together and let their heads fall back to rest on each other, neither’s eyes were dry due to gratitude for this connection.

Shiraz plopped herself down in the wildflower field where she was playing with Johanna, and Johanna joined her on the fragrant earth blanket, eying Shiraz, taking her cue from her poet playmate.

Anahata and Kalea, in the quiet of their den before the hearth, leaned in and touched foreheads, the physical touch amplifying their connection to each other, to them all.

In the South-East, Mosi danced under the warm afternoon sun and beat the taut, well-worn skin of the drum he had strapped over his shoulder. In the West, Zen sat down on the polished pebbles of the Garden, bells tinkling from where they swayed in the cherry tree boughs. And in the North, as Amara prowled through the snow and trees that lined the watering hole, The Ice Man sank into the icy Cold Lake.

The Tibetan Monks chanted and sang their bowls, the crickets chirped their songs of love throughout the realms, the Great Hawks soared and screeched, GaiaSophia pulsed her rhythmic lullaby, the choirs hummed in Memphis, the Witches lit their candles.

Each one of them was instantaneously transported outside of the Realm of Time and Space, hearts and minds synching, beating, pulsing in unison, no distance between them, balanced at the Zero Point, stitches at the edges of a wound, their drops glinting with the vibration of Indra’s Net of butterflies.
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Shiraz
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I am Shiraz, Daughter of Yara and Janus, Beloved to Diana. I sing to the song of The Poet, The PlayMate, The WordWeaver, and am Mirror to All.
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SECTION BREAK
PREPARING THE 7

Envoy Preparation (Rehearsals)
The Preparation House was full by day. The 7 Envoys were only a handful of the bodies, of energies, that hummed their Sacred Space to life. There was always an overflowing of assistance from the Settlements who cleaned, cooked, and tended to the gardens around the Preparation House so that the Envoys could fully immerse themselves in their purpose there.

Each day the 7 arrived from their respective homes, entered the Meditation Room in silence for an hour of quiet contemplation and MindLinking led by Kalea—a practice they had done all of their lives as a community—which flowed into mindful movement practices with Hoku. They broke for lunch only after the flow intensified into body preparation with Furkan.

After lunch, they would sit in the wisdom of their Acharyas: Hector, who prepared their minds; Anahata who prepared their Hearts; and Yara who acted as the chalice from which they could drink, where each flavour, each dimension, each aspect was swirled and mingled as if a fine and well-aged wine.

Each evening, as the Day placed the sky into Night’s open palm, each initiate either lingered to enjoy a light fare of supper together, to converse and debrief about the day’s experiences, or to hunker into the Library for the evening’s readings—eventually they made their way back to their respective homes to spend time with their families and immerse themselves in their studies until candles were blown out, lantern wicks turned down, eyelids closed heavy as curtains on the empty stage.

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SECTION BREAK (A Pause, A Breath, Before the Pivot)
LIFELINES
On the Edge
Not surprisingly, things got worse in the cities and surrounding districts—the same story of looting, violence, infighting, blame…so much of the same it is moot to belabour the telling. Camaria and her children’s daily existence was relatively unaffected, except when Camaria ventured to Slumber City for provisions, to visit Zen in The Garden, or to hang her paintings in The Gallery, though they did indeed feel deep sorrow for the people poisoned by the rage, the defeat, the fear that hung like sickly clouds on their horizon. How was it All Right that they lived in their white castle when the rest of the Western World lived in such an existence? Even the children felt this, perhaps especially the children.
So when doubt attempted to squat in their lush field of life, Camaria and her children created. There was no want for inspiration, and Camaria painted every moment she could when she was not gardening, cooking, canning, building, repairing; when she was not tending to or playing with or beyondering with her children; when her Daughters were off doing their own thing or making their own creations while their Mama brushed Heart and Soul from her colourful pots onto canvas after canvas.
The rumours about Easterners were not in any way new, and although most didn't even believe that the East even existed, more propaganda was being spread regarding the “what ifs” as of late. No one spoke openly of having been in the East, so did it really exist, this illusory place of peace, love, milk, and honey? And perhaps IF it existed, and only IF, the Easterners were certainly zealots who hoarded their resources and protected such resources by the impossible trial of passing through the abyss of The Veil, people vanishing and vaporizing when they made such an attempt. Those beliefs kept them from the possibilities: of escape, of change, of freedom. Better to leave it then and pity those desperate enough to try.
Uncle Hector had explained the Truth to The 7 one evening in the Training Grounds, why most Westerners could not see The Way, which was really simply a reminder as most of the envoys knew the situation having been around such conversations throughout their childhoods.
“It is True that the Eastern Realm does not exist for most people in the West,” Uncle Hector had told them one night, The 7 comfortably sitting around him on the packed earthen ground of the Training Yard. “Of course we exist, we simply do not exist for them—The Bardo an uncrossable, endless abyss; the Lost Mountains a sheer frozen mass of rocks of impossible heights; The Black Unknown a churning storm of sea monsters, typhoons, and sunken ships—they cannot see the Way through. But lack of Sight does not equate to lack of existence.
“For some, especially those who have a vested interest in the complacency of a people, know that regardless of whether such a place or a people or a reality exists, if the possibility of that existence, if the hope of it exists, this can be the ignition of a new “what if” with the potent potential for revolution…because the choice is always the people’s, and trickery, smoke, and mirrors must be employed for anyone to choose captivity over freedom.
“So, a great sickness spread, or was intentionally created, whichever is True, it matters not…The Sleeping Sickness—a blessed relief from ‘the pain that came instead of Love’ (which Sister Kalea so eloquently said). Let me be clear that sleeping in this manner, resting and repairing in another manner, and Dreaming are very different things. I am speaking about sleeping as a numbing, a closing to what could be; rest and repair are essential to the function of the Temples of the Body and Mind; and Dreams are an opening to everything that could be…” Hector paused for a moment collecting his thoughts, then continued before his patient, rapt audience.
“The Sleeping Sickness quells the questions that agitate, create unrest, and push for change. This ironically leaves all those whose existence relies on suppressing the freedom of others bound in the same Maya, bound to their roles/fates/burdens as keepers, oppressors, and lords as they pretend and presume the authority to be their Emperors, their gods. What is not understood is that complete power and control is not only impossible but would in the end be highly unsatisfactory, empty, tedious. It is empty in the Castle.
“So when a people is asleep to what is, the fear of the unknown exists as a sickness; there is no need to Exile because they Exile themselves, no need to punish because they punish themselves—there is no Way to enter what they do not believe exists, or exit what they think is all there is, or ultimately to merge it All as The Straddlers do. But some do awaken enough to see through the windows, to start looking for the doors, the gates, and the keys.”
—--------
And though Kage caught glimpses, he could not straddle. How could he be both detestable and worthy of Love at the same time? Surely, if there was a God, he would not be in his favour. Venomous blood ran through his veins injected into his very being by his Father, corrupting, fouling, festering. He was learning to accept that it was who he was, what he was.
He was hiding something, and Camaria knew it, and the children sensed it, the little bloodhounds that they were; and distance was his only way to mask the scent, the reek of deception. Though the family played and lived together when Kage felt well, when he was not his best, he retreated and locked the door, receding further and further into the corners of his office until even Molina was no longer permitted. How could she play and draw and create in the same room where he signed the death warrants of so many innocent people?
One night after consoling Molina with words and lullabies, after she had been tucked into bed deflated in her small nightshift once again having been shooed away by her Father his face drawn and pinched with strain, Camaria eased open the door in the way only she could do, with the keys only she held, and stepped inside, unafraid of what she might find.
There were no words but the slipping off of her garments as easily as the breeze blew through the sheer curtains of the room, disrobing Kage intentionally, gently, as if removing the hard shell of a warrior’s armour, feeling him relax under her touch. And it was there that she and Kage did more creating in the way a man and a woman could create, the flowering Poppy relieving the pain, releasing it into the warm night breeze.
After conceiving…
“Do not protect us. We can protect ourselves. Will you speak what is plaguing you, Kage?” Camaria implored. “Was it those soldiers?”
But Kage said nothing, shame disguised as stoicism, expressed as separation. And there was nothing more for Camaria to do but accept, carry the seeds, and keep Loving him.
After his Beloved fell into a fitful slumber in their bed, Kage remained on the edge—the edge of sleep, the edge of a decision to jump or stay but stressing about the fall. The edge was uncomfortable, and he could not stabilise himself there, so instead of staying, he slunk away to his office, off of the edge by way of a drink, maybe two, maybe three, alone with the spirits who had begun to haunt him with their spectral companionship.
—-------------
So, Camaria also felt more alone in the cool and growing spaces of distance between them. Mothering was a great privilege, and she yearned for a community to share in this privilege. She had Zen at the gallery, yet she was somewhat removed from her daily life within the walled garden; she had the men at the checkpoint, yet both were planning to leave—Joe to the Southern District and Wyatt to The Wilds, taking his chances on paperlessness. And for the first time, Camaria began to both experience loss and to anticipate more of it.
Camaria mindlinked and astral travelled and quantum entangled, yet she wanted for human contact. A physical hug from a Friend, more verbal conversation, the embodiment of the things she conceived of through her other well-honed senses. She liked aloneness, but aloneness in combination with the desire for contact made her lonely.
You need a Friend, Love. one closeby, Kalea intoned one morning when they connected while the girls played in the grasses, and Camaria watched a rare vehicle pull into the field a half mile away that contained a dilapidated house that was being fixed up. So, when Camaria called for a Friend from that loneliness she had not anticipated, the Universe answered with a gift.
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Wake of Destruction
Oberon’s company was almost always selected from the Drafted Recruits as opposed to The Enlisted. The Drafted had not chosen war, were not looking for glory or had anything to prove, and because of that, although he would not admit it to his superiors (who thought he enjoyed the challenge of conversion to the cause), Oberon chose from that particular shaking, bewildered, sometimes angry group of Greens because he wanted them to survive.
He remembered the day Berserker was drafted, how he stood in line with the others, ready for the picking as Oberon assessed them. Though he must have been afraid as anyone who was not crazy or stupid would be, he stood out brighter than the rest—kind, easygoing, and friendly, even though he was in no way there by choice. Oberon was satisfied with his selection, how once Berserker was settled into the barracks with the rest of Oberon’s platoon, he made everyone comfortable with his cheery manner, especially the younger recruits though he was only 18 himself. And they needed calm in the spaces where they ate, trained, prepared, and rested or they would splinter from the chaos of the battlefield. The callname MayDay bestowed on Berserker was largely ironic, both reflecting and mocking the joy his bunkmate managed to have in life, the fervor with which he lived it.
Berserker carried a book with him at all times—to the mess hall, the yard, even the showers—reading in moments between bites of food and conversation with his fellows, while waiting in his towel for the next available shower stall. But he was anything but antisocial, able to hop out of the stories or accounts or facts he was reading, seamlessly switching tasks to join any conversation with the knowledge and aptitude to relate to his fellows. He also loved music and dancing and any kind of show—street performance, the occasional fair, or puppets pranced about a homemade cardboard set made by his younger siblings. So although he kept his mind busy, his intellect sharp, his imagination alive with stories, he always made time for people.
Berserker had a big family, and a very loving one, too, despite the deplorable (virtually unbearable) living conditions of his place of birth. Sin City, with corruption sullying every alley and every corner, was even worse off than The Viper’s domain: the city of Slumber.
As he’d observed his soldiers going about their various activities when they were “at ease,” Oberon noted how Berserker would occasionally look up from one of his books to reflect, an expression of sadness eclipsing his face. And he wondered what that might be like, that kind of longing, to have someone to long for.
But a few months after his drafting, Berserker got quiet, some would say even pretty messed up, when Sin City, the city of his birth and his family’s residence, was swallowed by The Great Typhoon, its great maw opening to swallow his world.
The rest of Oberon’s soldiers hailed from all corners of the realm, this particular squad handpicked from the larger company under his command: City Boy from an affluent family in Slumber City, though not powerful enough to keep him from The Draft; Rocket from a small farming settlement North of that very city. MayDay didn’t talk about his family, his roots, or his past—he just shrugged when asked and would say he didn’t have any—so that part of him remained somewhat of a mystery to them all. Rosie was tightlipped, too, except to say that her family “once was and now they aren’t any more.” She was the only one of them who had voluntarily enlisted.
Langston, for some reason, gently wiggled his way into Oberon’s hard shell most deeply, perhaps because of his way of seeing the world, always scribbling in his journal such thoughts. The boy had a longing perhaps even greater than Berserker once had: to meet the child his girl back home was carrying.
Oberon’s soldiers were pretty fresh to the front before they went AWOL, all except Ghost who’d been a sniper for a couple of years under Oberon’s command, though never getting overly close to his targets—no hands-on combat, just precision and bullseyes with aptitude in both rifles and bows. If he could think about it that way, Ghost told Rocket one night in the yard while they shared a cigarette and some conversation, like he was playing a game or that the target was not human, it was like hunting back home in the Lost Mountains with his mother.
In contrast, Oberon was all hand to hand, all close encounters, knowing which bullet, which cut, was the final killing blow, feeling last breaths as whispers that reeked regret on his leathery, whiskered cheek. Perhaps Oberon could spare them some of the brutal truths of war, as oblivious to the deaths they caused as bootheels crushing bugs as they marched; or perhaps he could, at the very least, harden them enough to withstand.
Though Oberon had tried not to like anyone, he liked Berserker, and City Boy, and Rocket, and Ghost, and Rosie, and Langston, he even liked MayDay though that boy was hard to like some days: and he wanted to keep them alive. And so his face was stone when he trained them in combat survival, anything soft about him armoured up when he trained them in the art of war.
As Oberon reflected on the soldiers, the losses, the violent deaths, their losses, their violent deaths, the distance grew between himself and the meaning of it all; The Red Bullet and how it created monsters out of men and women, boys and girls, someone’s children, someone’s sweethearts, someone's parents-to-be; Oberon’s epiphany was not only that did he not want to be more brutal in killing, but that he no longer wanted to kill at all, and the best way to win a war was not to win but to simply stop warring.
Huh. A pacifist now was he? Oberon mused, rubbing his rough cheek stubble. Huh.
All these 30 years he’d done nothing but watch people die, participate in their deaths, feeding his own soldiers into the machine, ordering them to perform acts that had nothing to do with glory or righteousness. He had not done one damn good thing in the world. What had his service amounted to? What had his life amounted to?
Keeping his soldiers alive, that’s what. And so he summoned his men.
—----------
Oberon and his squad gathered in Camaria and Kage’s back shop for an early morning briefing and debriefing. They were to discuss the events of the past week as well as next steps, or as Oberon had put it to Camaria and Kage: “what the fuck we’re going to do now.”
None of the men knew what to expect—a reprimand, a shaming, a death sentence—hence all were nervous, but when each of them showed up clean, shaven, and ready to face whatever was in store for them, they were told to sit at ease for the conversation.
They had burned most of their fatigues in the fire the night before, so their attire was again various items Kage had given them; MayDay being the only one under 6 feet, had to roll up the sleeves and pants, Ghost had to cinch the waist of his trousers a bit with a belt. Kage was asked to join them for the meeting which he did, while Camaria chose to take the children for a beyondering, giving the men space to report the truth without outside witness to their shame.
Oberon greeted each man with a nod and utterance of their names.
“Commander,” each man answered, also with a nod. It hadn’t even occurred to any of them to salute as it seemed they were beyond the protocols of a system they’d now found themselves outside of. For Oberon, it strangely was a relief.
Once Kage entered with his own serious yet not hostile greetings and sat in one of the open chairs around the shop table, Oberon began.
“We aren’t going back,” Oberon said. Berserker looked up, surprised. Ghost was not surprised having been privy to this possibility since he and Oberon’s conversation the previous morning.
“Not even you?” Berserker asked.
“No,” he answered. They all contemplated for a moment what that might mean, but no one said anything further so Oberon could carry on.
“If we go back, you’re all dead. As for me, even if they don’t reprimand me, I would have to comply with the disbursement of The Red Bullet, I would have to continue to poison my soldiers, and that would be worse than a reprimand, worse than the briggs, worse than death. So, we are not going back.”
“Fuck!” MayDay said as he liberated the breath he was holding.
“What will we do? We can’t run. They will hunt us down,” Berserker questioned.
“They can try,” Oberon stated, expression steady, the deep lines in his weathered face unmoving.
City Boy huffed a proud sound accompanied by an expression of confidence, cocked an eyebrow, then said: “Ghost is a master tracker, and if you can track…”
“You know how not to be found,” Rocket finished.
“Can this really be possible?” City Boy wondered aloud, budding confidence daring to bloom into a full smile.
“If we are smart and have a plan. Yes,” Oberon asserted. Ghost watched the reactions of the other men, listening. Rocket’s mind set to working on what that plan might be.
“Langston and Rosie will need to join us for reasons I will explain later. I’ve already messaged briefly informing them of the situation. We rendezvous in a few days, and I’ve given them the location. They’re to lay low until then,” Oberon explained in a flurry of facts as they began to map their next moves, as the shock began to wear off, as they faced and then embraced their new situation, their new focus, their new trajectory. “Kage directed them to a safe house his family secures a few miles from here.” City Boy shot Kage a look to which Kage coolly looked back.
“They will be safe there, City Boy,” Oberon assured him, and the younger man relaxed somewhat, trusting his commander’s judgement.
“But what will we do then? Just float from hiding spot to hiding spot?” Berserker asked.
“We regroup and refocus,” Oberon said steadily, “no longer disposable pawns to be blown up or made into bloodthirsty killers for The Empire or anybody else.”
“Fuck, yeah!” MayDay exclaimed.
“Do you want redemption, boys?” Oberon continued. “Do you want to regain your honour?” They were silent as the question sank deep, and their answer was plain as the pain in their faces.
“I do, too,” Oberon said, “for you and for me. To serve The Machine, as the Resistance calls The Empire, to feed it my own soldiers, was not honour, it was not just. And I am sorry.”
“You might not believe we deserve redemption if you knew what we did,” Berserker said.
“I know what you did. I followed your path. I tracked you through the wake of your destruction,” Oberon countered, without menace or judgement, yet holding steady the truth. “You must face what you did so it never happens again,” Oberon continued, looking unflinchingly into each man’s eyes.
“What do we do, then?” Rocket implored after a moment when Oberon’s eyes fell upon him.
“We realise a new purpose,” City Boy blurted. “We do something we can be proud of.”
“If we are to give our lives, let it be for something truly honourable,” Ghost added.
“Yes, let it be,” Oberon seconded, and the men sat in silence for a few moments as the rising sun struggled to pink the room through the dusty shop windows.
—------------
Breaking only once for a light lunch, the men continued to speak throughout the day after City Boy had poured them each a cup of coffee from a decanter he’d brought with him to the shop—bare and exposed, their armour cast off in a heap with their pride.
“I told him it was a bad idea,” Rocket said, “but City Boy here gave such a speech about glory and honour.”
“We wanted to get them while they slept, you know. Make you proud, make The Empire proud. Crush every one of them,” MayDay explained.
“That's not why I did it. I don’t give a fuck about The Empire,” City Boy interjected. “I did it for my son. But it makes no sense now. To murder other people’s sons in the name of my own.”
“I just wanted it over with, The War With No End,” Rocket said.
“Just a quick in and out with efficient precision…that was the plan,” Ghost added and shook his head.
“And what happened, then?” Oberon said low and steady, entering into difficult territory.
“Once we took those pills everything went to shit. No plan. No precision. Just this lust for blood. I just felt like hurting people, and it didn’t matter who,” City Boy admitted.
“We slaughtered that Opposition camp, like literally tore them apart, one bullet not enough, and we didn’t want to stop until they were swiss cheese,” Rocket said in disbelief, amazed, disgusted. “But the appetite only grew…Then we got sniffing on the tracks of some wagon squeaking by…” his speech became quieter, slower then. “I just remember laughing when MayDay took that woman from the carriage into the bushes,” Rocket continued, “like I was watching someone else, like it wasn’t even me there laughing and egging him on…” Rocket paused, having to fight down the vomit that crept up his throat.” MayDay just looked at the floor, his hands, anywhere but in the eyes of his brethren.
“We thought we’d fight like gods,” MayDay finally said. “But instead we were rabid. I don’t remember much after that…but…” he said looking down as if seeing the torn clothes he was wearing that night, the blood and dirt that caked from fingertip to elbow, nail marks that streaked his skin with blood, still marked him though washed now.
“I remember I was heading out to shoot myself in the head to stop the memories of that girl and the man at his cottage, when you showed up,” Berserker confessed, hands circling his mug of coffee, “but I realised I’d forgotten to take my gun…then I saw you walking up like some kind of dark angel come to collect me, come to collar the wicked.”
As the boy recounted, Oberon’s imagination conjured what could have happened had Berserker remembered to take his gun. He likely would have been dead now, either from his own hand or Oberon’s.
“Am I bad?” Berserker asked no one in particular. “Do I have darkness in me? If I didn’t then how could I have done such things?”
“Some part of me liked it,” MayDay interjected. “I remember feeling this kind of euphoria even though I was not sure what I was doing all the time, only that I felt powerful and destructive and fucking unstoppable.”
“It was like my brain was on fire,” Ghost mused. “Yet I only wanted the flames to grow. I didn’t care if I also died in the process.”
“Commander? What is that stuff? What have we done?” City Boy implored.
“It’s a form of biowarfare,” Kage said, garnering the rapt attention of everyone in the room, the first he’d spoken all morning as he’d sat and listened.
“But it’s used on The Empire’s own army rather than the enemy,” Kage continued. “It excites the amygdala and turns off the neocortex in the brain, it also dulls pain receptors, simultaneously intensifies and overrides fear creating a heightened urge to survive and to kill with savage abandon, essentially turning off any sort of moral compass. It can make a monster out of anyone. The most meek, the most kind, the most gentle.”
“What the fuck…” MayDay loosed.
“And there are thousands of soldiers being given that shit as we speak,” Rocket said.
“There are,” Kage asserted.
“How do we stop it?” Rocket asked.
“We can’t. But I can tell you how to antidote it if you ever have the chance to do so,” Kage offered.
“How do you know all this?” Ghost asked Kage directly.
“I just know,” was all Kage would tell him.
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Cold Mountain
“Kiiiiloooo, my young nephew!” The Ice Man bellowed. He put down the axe he was using to chop wood and clapped Kilo on the back as he met him on the path in front of the small cabin. His uncle was dressed in a great, heavy coat, large mitts, and boots, but his head was uncovered save for a hastily gathered ponytail of thinning grey hair. He didn’t seem perturbed one bit by the cold that pinked his weathered cheeks and the tips of his ears, nor did he hide from the icy breeze as Kilo did.

“Uncle!” Kilo answered, relieved to have arrived, his breath puffing out as a cloud of frost. Rubbing his mittened hands together, Kilo crunched his shoulders up to his ears, burying his head deeper into the collar of his coat. Despite this, the wind continued to run its icy fingers down his neck—relentless and unapologetic.

“Ah, you are cold! Help me with this so we can go inside!” The Ice Man said as he led Kilo to the wood he'd piled along the cabin’s south wall.

“I got carried away with the chopping today, you know?!” he laughed as he heaped a few pieces onto Kilo’s waiting forearms. “Now, let’s go inside! Your Auntie Amara is off in the snowy depths of the forest, but Tallulah and Kai are inside. They have been anxiously awaiting your arrival!”

Kilo was amazed that Amara was anywhere at all in this weather, but she was quite literally a different breed entirely—a Shapeshifter, in fact, with the Human form being her second choice behind that of the Snow Leopard.

His cousin Tallulah’s Beloved, Kai, was also a Shapeshifter, and his second choice was that of the Raven, behind, of course, Human.

His uncle, well, The Ice Man, was no Shapeshifter, but he certainly was something more than Human. A man of a superhuman nature Kilo had never observed in anyone save his father, Janus. Yet, Janus’ nature was something very unlike his boisterous brother’s even before becoming an Ancient.

“Come!” The Ice Man said as he led him into the cabin. Kilo immediately began to shiver at the sweet promise of warmth.

The air inside the cabin hit Kilo like the winds of paradise. Inside they found Tallulah and Kai each sitting in wide, deep, cushioned wooden armchairs they had pulled close together. A warm fire was lit in the hearth before them. Their space was simple, but lovely, homey, everything that was comfortable but yet required strength and resilience to maintain—the wood that The Ice Man chopped this morning, the vegetables stewing over the fire Tallulah built, harvested and stored from the garden they managed to grow from the rocky ground during their short but sweet summer.

Their homestead consisted of three simple buildings and a smattering of storage sheds and lean-tos: The Ice Man and Amara’s cabin, the Sauna House behind, and Tallulah and Kai’s home to the South of the main cabin placed there to receive the most sunlight possible at all seasons of the year. The Sun and Moon marked their time, the winds carried their seasons. Despite the extreme frigidity, Cold Mountain was glaringly sunny virtually every day.

Tallulah lifted her head crowned with chestnut-coloured braids at the sound and the chill of the outside air as the men entered.

“Kilo!” Tallulah declared as she jumped from the chair and dropped the sock she was darning onto Kai’s lap. “You’ve come!” her azure blue eyes implored his face, “Oh, you look utterly frozen! Father, you didn’t even bring him straight in! Piled him with logs for the fire instead! I could have gone out for that,” she scolded as she helped Kilo out of his frost-crusted coat.

“Tallulah, Kai,” Kilo greeted happily although his lips were still a bit too frozen to form the words properly.

“Ah, he’s ok, Tallulah. A bit cold is all,” his uncle asserted as he hung his own coat on the hooks behind the front door, stomping and kicking the snow from his boots and removing them, as well.

“Is that right, Kilo? Are you All Right?” she asked, eyeing Kilo shrewdly, continuing to fuss and rub his arms and hands as he attempted to remove his layers of outerwear.

“Yes, yes, cousin, I'm alright.” Kilo managed a smile, but his teeth soon set to chattering as his body began to thaw.

“Alright, then, let’s get you by the fire with some warm tea,” Tallulah said as she let go of him long enough for him to remove his boots, his toes stumps of ice yearning to be rubbed back to life.

“Are you hungry?” Tallulah asked. Kilo hadn’t thought about food all day since he ate the dried and preserved breakfast he had packed before the storm hit, but the suggestion and the smell of the contents of the bubbling pot set his stomach grumbling. They all heard, and they all laughed.

“I suppose that’s my answer then!” Tallulah exclaimed and ushered him into the chair closest to the fire. “We’ll get you fixed right up,” but Kai was already up ladeling the stew into a mid-sized wooden bowl.

“Cousin,” he said, placing the heavenly warmth into Kilo's cold hands, “it is wonderful to see you! It has been a while since you were here last for our Joining Ceremony. Two years, now? And you have grown into a man. Tallulah and I wonder about you often.”

Kai had small black eyes that managed to dance with playfulness, but not only playfulness—they were clever, sharp, they saw everything with precision and quickly, as well. He was clean-shaven where The Ice Man was bearded, he was slight where The Ice Man was robust, he was raven-haired and sleek where The Ice Man was grey and dishevelled. He was also tall, graceful, with long, delicate fingers. The Ice Man continued to stomp and rattle his way into the room.

“And much has happened since then,” Tallulah added, rubbing her belly, still flat, but Kilo understood.

“Cousin! Congratulations!” Kilo exclaimed.

“Yes! I am going to be a grandfather!” The Ice Man boomed. Kai simply smiled, albeit a very large smile that lifted at his dark eyebrows. Tallulah smiled at her father, glanced at Kai, then looking back to Kilo:

“It is always a risk, carrying and delivering Shapeshifting babies, I know. But we are blessed. And everything will be All Right.”

“Yes, Tally, it will be,” Kai agreed, taking his place beside her to encircle her waist with his arm. And the way she sank into his embrace was the embodiment of the very bloom of hope. The very blooming of what could be.

That night after Tallulah and Kai left to sleep in their cabin, after he’d slipped beneath the heavy woollen blankets his uncle piled on the bed they made up for him in the loft above the kitchen, Kilo’s mind dissolved into sensations, images, and thoughts only experienced in the liminal space.

He was very much happy to see his family, to be with them full and warm and tucked into the solace of the cabin on the mountainside, but even that warmth couldn’t seem to slow the bloom of frostbite from the empty void of Camaria’s absence. Their thread gone cold, dormant, deep in hibernation. She was gone. Gone and beyond. And the only thing that remained of her was the bite of the frost to remind him of his loss.

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Erris Enters the WR: Collection Day
Erris landed with a jolt in the middle of a rubble-strewn field. It was like no other place he’d been before—the Sun out but not quite shining through the atmosphere, the air thick with dirt, what he would later learn to describe as grime. As his head, then body, turned a whole 360 degrees to take in the scene laid out before him, he realised that he was surrounded by dead bodies lying exactly where they fell, some whose blood had just barely dried. Their chests were still, the life seeped out of them in rivulets of iron-scented red to be absorbed into the parched earth beneath.
The field was abuzz with what seemed to be soldiers in two different uniforms—one cobalt blue with what Hector had told them was the insignia of The Empire’s Army, and the other in dull grey donning the symbol of The Opposition. The soldiers were clearing away the corpses—carrying them on stretchers or over shoulders. There were a few people in plain clothes with crimson bands around their upper arms tending to the dead with similar bands. The Resistance, then.
But there were no gunshots, no fighting, no screaming or yelling—in fact it was eerily quiet except for the sounds of murmured conversation and the movement of corpses being hoisted and placed into wagons. This was not a time for battle, but the calm between the cyclical storms: Collection Day.
“Oi, you there!” called a soldier in a grey uniform and sharp military cap.
“Yes, you—big, dark young man in the kilt,” the soldier affirmed when Erris shot him a questioning expression. “What side are you on?” the soldier asked, furrowing his brow in thought and inquisition.
“I don’t have a side,” Erris answered, insides churning as he tried to grasp this new Reality.
“Well you’d better join one. Our company is moving out after we finish up here, and we could use a few extra bodies. We have a few uniforms and a gun we can assign to you,” he said, then added: “as long as you’re not from Slumber City.”
“I’m not from there, no.”
“I didn’t think so. A Rebel from The Resistance, then?”
“Not that, either,” Erris said as two soldiers bumped his elbow, having passed too closely with the stretcher they were carrying.
“A floating pacifist then. Hmm,” the soldier said, sizing Erris up, noting his fit bulk, his young yet rugged features. “What a waste,” he said under his breath, shaking his head. But instead of walking away as he’d intended, the soldier probed further.
“If you don’t have a side, you could join ours as I said. Our cause is the only just cause in the War With No End.”
“Why would I join a side?” Erris asked, trying not to be sickened by the carnage, wondering how this soldier could chat so nonchalantly when they were surrounded by so much violent death.
“If you want to eat. If you want to survive, you take a side,” the soldier replied incredulously. “Otherwise you take your chances. The Rebels will slit your throat in the alleys where they fight over scraps. The Empire will snuff you out on their next march, step over your dead body they’ll leave lying in the dust, and they won’t look back.” He paused. “Those bodies,” he went on, motioning to the battered corpses in plain clothes strewn in the dirt, “those are the bodies that stink up the fields, no brethren to clean them up except the occasional good samaritan or parent who happens to find them where they fell.” He let that sink in for a moment, watching Erris’ expression.
“My job is to remove our dead soldiers from the Killing Fields, give them a proper burial, and direct lost men like you.” He crouched and started to go through the pockets of a fallen Rebel.
“Do you mean recruit?” Erris asked as he swatted away a fly that buzzed near his ear. There were so many flies. The air was filled with their sickening song.
“Yes, I suppose so. But for the only cause worth fighting for,” the soldier said, standing, having finished his looting, lifting his head high with the statement—a practised Pavlov’s dog trick.
“The only cause worth fighting for?” Erris asked. “Do you mean Freedom?”
“Victory,” the soldier corrected with finality.
“I see,” was all Erris could manage to say as he started to walk away from the soldier who called after him:
“You will have to take a side. Everyone does. You take a side and have a chance at survival, or you go it alone and die a certain death.”
“Holy Gods,” Erris said to himself as he stumbled over a woman who was looking to the sky with sightless eyes, “I'm in The Battlefields.”
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Disappearing Act

The Big Wave hit, and I am a beachcomber sifting through the inevitable debris…

I will myself to disappear, wanting to erase me from the story, shouts fading into echoes of memory, wiping my obscuring colours from the glass, just a small smudge left at the corner to be rubbed by some keener with a furious handful of white cloths….

Yesterday I dreamed I was flying on the back of a Great Hawk, eyes closed, arms around his neck, head resting on his feathered neck, seeing through his eyes the entire landscape, feeling the freedom of soaring…trusting, knowing, along for the ride…

It is not me or my thoughts I need to see; in fact, I am a cataract. I must become Invisible.

For my Human, this is painful, when she can’t understand that it is not she who must go but to expand the narrow purview, the pinhole lense of a clinging, albeit charming personality.

She misinterprets, mistakes it for disappearing, a skulking in the shadows of doubt and shame, meaningless/matterless, a dark wish for death as the last flickering candle is blown out…and she wills this but does not will this…

She wonders: What does it mean? To disappear? Why do I want to both disappear and to stay? Why does that make me angry (the youth saying leave me alone to do what I like!)? Why does that make me sad (the soft bits of me wanting to be loved)?

We continuously die through little deaths, each cell committing programmed suicide, each version of ourselves outliving our purpose. We practice for the physical death of our current bodies, have near death experiences, birth children, hold the hands of loved ones as they cross over or cradle the kitten we found run over in the street; we experience injury and wounding, we surrender into sleep…we play in the costumes, in the stories, AND simultaneously, who we thought we were is forever dying to our becoming.

I asked The World Oracle to show me the synchronicities, the notes of the song, the scenes of the chapter through “real life” events, and what played out were: the refusal to acknowledge my art by “experts” and “adjudicators” through antiquated, turnstile, elitist standards; physical and natural challenges alone in the current deep freeze of my northern climate; role as mother changing and shifting from blessed chaos to patient holding; missing my playmates who are my children and their father; questioning the importance of my thoughts, my words, my work; which of course, developed a theme, a chorus of them, a tapestry of meaning and subsequent story (both old and new):

My Human: Shut up. No one cares, you don’t even care.
And in some ways this is very true and not at all something to lament. Discern, speak only what is worth speaking.
Shut Up became Be Silent. Listen…

My Human: You have lost.
I have felt loss, but the word is really “disconnection”, not loss of my place and importance, not loss of any of the ones I love. I have felt loss, but I have not lost. I am not lost.
The shift comes…to the felt experience of belonging and connection and lifeforce and meaning and purpose—the reconnection point of insight…

My Human: The Youth energy wanting to individuate (like everyone fuck off and stop asking for things, stop telling me what to do because you don’t even fucking know) warring with the Tender One who just wants to be loved and held. And they can co-exist. They both want the same things. Freedom. Love. The Mother holds space for their play and expression.
Fuck You becomes Fuck This.
I Need becomes I Desire.

Boundaries, walls, and shadows become wombs, caves, a thorny bed of roses, bubbles…

The patterns have shown themselves, the epiphanies have risen to the surface, it is time to burn, release—rewrite the old scripts and stories on crumpled scraps of paper, to reimagine and re-invent.

There is more, always more, but…

…it is impossible to express this intricate weaving except through art. Through the felt experience of metaphor, the expanse of meaning hitting you from every direction, the YOU in IT and the IT in YOU. Ah, it was only one song, one image, one moment suspended in a poem, but I get it now. I’m feeling you.

So here is the shift…where Confusion becomes Epiphany, where the fight against Loss becomes the freedom of Letting Go. Where Disappearance becomes Invisibility.

You are always here. You were never not here.

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Tallulah’s Lila
Talula, Talula,
don’t want to lose her
She must be worth losing
if living’s worth something
Talula, Talula,
she’s brand new now to you
Wrapped in your papoose,
your little Fig Newton
-Tori Amos (lyrics slightly altered in the way I’ve always heard them)
Though the birth was intense just as it had been with Little Raven, it was less so. Tallulah held on to the breathing, Amara, The Ice Man, and Kai at her side, Kilo in presence, Yara off on a journey of her own.
The Witches and Moona reached the cabin as the babe’s head descended, they came swiftly up the stairs as she crowned…
The babe slipped from her mother’s body with one final push and into her Father’s hands who placed her on Tallulah’s chest. Final blood from placenta to babe pumped through the cord to the subsequent beats of Tallulah’s Heart.
“Oh, she is wonderful,” Tallulah breathed, and Amara wiped her Daughter’s hot brow with a cool, wet cloth.
“Of course she is,” Kai said leaning in. “She looks like you. Already, Tally. Your likeness,” he marvelled as Moona and the witches tended to the bleeding.
“How is it that such a miracle can come from my very own body?” Tallulah wondered aloud.
“I Know the answer to that, too,” Kai said, leaning in to peer more closely at the babe’s face, his Beloved’s, then back to their Daughter, placing a delicate kiss on each of their foreheads.
Maybe, perhaps, it can be different? Kai intoned to Moona, to The Ice Man, to Amara, to Kilo, yet intent on being present, completely present for these moments.
The family mended and attended, staunched and slowed, filling buckets and wringing cloths, applying the herbs and emitting the Love, but the blood kept coming, and the babe was very still, and Tallulah’s arms went weaker and her eyes heavy…so heavy…
“Kai, Love, it is my time to fly,” was all she had left to say.
…and all of them, each and every one of them, felt her Soul take flight...the babe squeaked and stretched, her Mother sighed into the sky…
Tallulah’s final words whispered through Kai’s very being as if it were his own last breath, pooling warm in his Heart, flooding, threatening to burst it open beneath his heavy chest, so it tore a little bit instead…there were no heroics, and though he was prepared, he swooned with the formidable pain from the wound…
One by one, the family each kissed Tallulah’s forehead as they said their fare-wells, her parents staying at her side for some time. Moona held the child as The Ice Man openly wept, body wracking with his grief, head hanging, hands in prayer with his elbows on the bed; Amara curled up beside their Daughter, purring strong yet soft from deep within her great white-furred chest.
Kai had forseen this, Tallulah’s death, but this time he hadn’t held back—the Visions, the Dreams. He told his Beloved everything: of the Ways their journey could go, which paths they could take, where their stories converged and diverged, a display of ravens weaving, looping, and dancing in the sky, ribbons trailing from their claws, from their beaks. “Unkindness,” the Western word for a flock such as theirs, a flagrant misinterpretation of their Story.
They could attempt to prevent, and of course they did try; and with each act, each preparation, the Universe realigned itself, yet the endpoint remained the same, each Way becoming a new stream to the very same Ocean. But they did not shy away, they feared but did not fear their fear, went deeper into the patterns of flight, and yet though they converged at times, Kai could not foresee in any one of them their four in any stream together.
“It is only a probability,” Kia told her. “One shift in the wind can change anything, can change everything,” he said and grasped her hand.
“Beautiful Kai, this is not your doing. You are the messenger,” Tallulah assured him, placing her hand over his so he could/would relax his grip.
“I cherish you,” he said, lifting her hands to his forehead. “I Love you, Tally. I do not want life without you no matter what agreement our Souls may have made. I do not care about anything more than you, not even purpose, not revelation, not even Truth. I do not want it to pass.”
“Perhaps it will not,” Tallulah said gazing into the distance. Then breaking the rising riptide of sadness that was building between them, she added a bit more cheerily: “I am learning to straddle the realms. I know you have before, Kai, too, that you can do it again if you do not fear it.”
“I fear that I cannot find my way Home again, that I would lose myself and you and everything I know to be True,” he confessed.
“You Know how to cross the worlds. You found me before, as easily as the wind blows, because you let it take you.”
“I did. I did, Tally,” Kai agreed, daring to hope and to dream.
“My time with Little Raven has shown me the Way, the many Ways. You will not be left or abandoned. You are a ShapeShifter, Kai. You already Know something I have had to learn, what our own son taught me through his own death,” Tallulah said, the sadness that can come with insight playing on her face.
“I choose to stay,” Kai confessed after some hesitation, “and it feels like a broken promise, Tally, that my choice to stay reveals my professions of Love for you as lies. I Know that it is not my time to fly with you just yet; it is a Knowing that is deep but not at all clear, though I feel pain and loss at the prospect of your departure, a grief that may very well extinguish me nevertheless. But Tally, though I don’t know how I will do it, I still desire to live.”
“Do not think that I wish to leave you, to leave my mother and father, my life here on Cold Mountain. Our babe,” Tallulah said then paused. “But I Sense that this is not the end but the beginning, that ends are always beginnings, they are One and the same. I Sense a reason I cannot explain or fully comprehend.”
“Each Way is simply a new perview, a new vision. I understand this, but my Human still writhes with the pain of it,” Kai lamented.
“Oh, Love, I do, I do as well,” she said, pressing his knuckles to her lips, her cheek. “But the Bridge, Kai, the Bridge of Rainbows to the Realm of Souls…I cannot straddle the realms in this Human form, but I have crossed the Bridge many times. If what you have Seen comes to pass, I can forgo the bridges and the walking, I can shed the weight of it and fly.”
Kai was silent, sitting in the sorrow he felt for them both: him being left behind and Tallulah having to leave.
“Let us decide to enjoy every minute. Let us trust. Let us live, Kai,” Tallulah decided for them both.
So they let go of the past and the future as best they could, and Kai’s visions ceased. They met each present moment as if it were the only real moment, which it always is in Truth. They walked, they cooked, they prepared for the birth, they sang and danced and laughed, they sat under the stars as the Moon and Tallulah’s belly rose. They lived in gratitude, in Love; they chose to Surrender and to Trust.
As he sat on the edge of the bed, Kai recalled first landing on the Mountain, the world he’d come from fading into the haunting realm of memory. He felt again the brightness of newness, of a new world that revealed itself to him when he shed the density, the heavy bulk of his past, of all he thought he could be lightening into what he truly was.
Closing his eyes now for one exquisite moment, Kai experienced their meeting anew, as if he were there again, as if they were there, again, together, because in remembering, he Knew, they always were…the biscuits Tallulah had shared with him on the first day he’d shown himself, the pot of sticky liquid she’d served with them, how she’d taught him to make bannock and thick vegetable stews. How he Loved her fiercely, deeply, as if he was meant to all his life, their golden bond thick and warm, the possibility of an instant promise, of love at first sight alive in their enchanted story. How she thought he was beautiful.
So, Kai surrendered to the Knowing, the Prophecy, the Possibility, the Choice…it did not matter which it was in the end since it simply was, and the story endlessly unfurls and unfolds, time and space somehow becoming irrelevant.
Kai opened his eyes from where he sat on the edge of the bed beside Tallulah. Her body had been neatly covered with clean linens, hair adorned with treasures from the forest, her face lovely and peaceful as if she were asleep.
“My Tallulah,” he whispered in her ear knowing she would hear him, though not through her body, “you were my first taste of honey.”
He looked over to the window into the blue expanse where Little Raven met Tallulah, and he felt the two of them, Mother and Son, braid into another stream of time. Kai did not fly with them, for his place, this time, was on the ground.
When Kai finally left Tallulah’s side with Kilo’s gentle coaxing and sat in the corner to hold his new daughter, Moona placed the babe in her Father’s waiting arms. It did not increase the pain for Kai to look upon their Daughter; in fact, it was a comfort. A deep and anchoring comfort. And he was glad that his Beloved breathed long enough to name her. She’d told him she wanted their Daughter’s name to be a surprise. Lila.
A Gift for you, the breeze whispered from the open window, setting Tallulah’s collection of coloured ribbons aflutter. They were tied to a small stick Kai had found already peeled by a beaver, and the yellow one, the wildest, the most insistent for his attention, caught his eye.
“What will you teach me, little Lila?” Kai asked the babe as she dozed, not yet knowing the colour of her eyes as they had yet to open. “What Gift has your Mother given me in creating/birthing such a divine creature as you?”
Divine play, indeed.
Tallulah’s Lila.
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Of All the Stars in the Sky
Janus was a flesh and blood man once—beautiful in his perfectly imperfect Human form, as all of us are.

Kilo and Sharaz were children of Love, conceived in the twin city Sirius where Yara, their mother, met their father, her Beloved Janus, during her travels with her Anam Cara: Kalea and Anahata.

3 years before, when she realised that there was more for her to learn besides what idling she was up to in her home settlement on the shores of The Ageless Sea, Yara had ventured to Veil’s Edge at the emergent age of 15 and bonded so completely with her new friends Kalea and Anahata that she stayed there. Her parents no longer living, her sister Aria studying music in Academe, her friend Amara having bounded into the cold to be with The Ice Man when her own sisters crossed the sea to join the witches of the North, Yara had no tethers to the place where she was born and raised save for nostalgia. The settlement was small, dwindling, emptying—fading from the physical maps of the world into the realms of ghosts and memory.

To the west and slightly south of The Ageless Sea where he lived with his brother, Janus felt the call to the OtherWorlds since an early age and left Cold Mountain when the time was right. He had been living in Sirius for 7 years before he and Yara were plucked from the endless sky of stars, their luminescence combined, stirred together as if in one of Amara’s sisters’ cauldrons, and spelled into the sky as dancing Aurora Borealis by the finger of god.

So, when their trio decided it was time for a new adventure, Yara, Kalea, and Anahata set out from Veil’s Edge to travel their world and to dip their toes in the OtherWorlds. There Janus waited for their arrival though he did not know it yet. And all 4 of their paths converged quite expectedly in the city under the purple sky. But that is a story for another time…

After their Union, Yara and Janus returned to Janus’ home on Cold Mountain, and in the presence of Janus, Kalea, Anahata, The Ice Man, and Amara (who had come to the mountain and became a mother, herself, years ahead of Yara), Yara gave birth to their golden twins: Kilo and Shiraz: the Daydreamer and the Secret Song. Kalea and Anahata returned to Veil’s Edge, and Yara and Janus stayed for a Time on the mountain with their children.

“Of all the stars in the sky,” Janus once said to Yara as they sat alone one clear night behind their cabin, “it is you and I and our two who make our us,” he said referring to their children wrapped and sleeping inside. And that was enough, at that very perfect moment, their intimate constellation.

On one auspicious day when the twins were 3, Yara said her “goodbyes” to Amara, The Ice Man, and their Tallulah, her family on the mountain, promising to visit soon and often. She packed her things and her children on her back and in her sled, and walked with Janus down the mountain toward the settlement of Veil’s Edge. When they came to the fork in the road, they spent some Time in the snow in an embrace, gently kissing, touching, memorising each other's faces through their eyes and their hands—how each snowflake melted as they landed on their skin, ran down their faces with their tears.

“I am sorry,” Janus said, his lips a breath away from Yara’s, emerald eyes imploring her face that was framed by her chin-length hair, the colour he always said reminded him of rich buckwheat honey.

“It is your path, your Way,” Yara assured him with a rare tenderness she only revealed to her Beloved. “And mine…ours,” she said as she gestured to the two little bundles on the sled, “is this Way, this road, the people and the life it leads to.”

“It is,” Janus agreed.

The cold of the winter didn’t bother them—Yara because she was a child of the tundra. Growing up in the _____ settlement, Yara was as happy as any child could be. Not gleeful or giddy or even carefree, mind you, for children in ____ did not think in such terms. Their contentment was practical, and for that, it was unshakable, complete: they helped where they were needed, they accepted what was given, they did not want or yearn for frivolity or luxury for such things did not exist for them, not even in the stories told to them by their Mamas and their Papas. They ate their heels of bread neither with reverence nor self-pity—they simply ate their heels of bread. Poked their siblings. Solved problems with their parents. Then they got up from the table to carry on with life.

The children were well cared for, connected, needed, loved fiercely, but never coddled—they were slung on their parent’s backs bumping and jostling as their parents worked, travelled, sailed, traded, and gathered—when infants, their pinked faces were sheltered from the harsh winds by their mothers’ open shirts as they nursed them while sitting on the rocks that lined the Sea. They were not possessed nor owned by their families, but they belonged, and thus they learned how to possess themselves.

So, the cold of the winter didn’t bother Yara, no, because she was a child of the tundra; it didn’t bother Janus because it was becoming irrelevant.

“We will come,” Yara pledged. “To the Monastery. To you.”

“I will be different still,” Janus said. “You will remember. I will forget. You will hold. And I will empty.”

“I know. I have always known. I have felt you thinning, Janus, Holo-ing, one whisp at a time from the moment we first met. You have always been something I could not hang on to but always felt present, more present than the stones I used to throw into the sea as a girl. Even now your skin feels less solid beneath my hands. You cannot help it,” Yara continued as she touched his cheek to lift the sadness. “It is your metamorphosis. You cannot be frozen here in Time because you are Timeless. Where I am rock, you are Æther.”

“I feel it. And I feel you, my fearless, powerful Yara,” Janus answered, returning her touch, leaning into hers, “like there is no skin between us; but more, I cannot define us. Not like before. I cannot discern what is you, what is me. It should be unnerving, but somehow it isn’t. It leaves me without breath because I am breath. And everything Matters yet none of it Matters. Words can no longer contain. Neither can Form. It is all Æther, and I am the field. I can feel myself dissolving into the One, dissipating, evanescing, but not from one solid form to another, not from one place to another, but into another density…I cannot explain in words…” Janus closed his eyes to be for a moment. Yara waited. Then Janus continued.

“I am everything and everywhere, and my container is flickering, like it was never really there. I can see the layers, Yara, the layers and layers…my words, it is not that I have few, I no longer want to speak them, they are inadequate, I want to just be…in…it…my strong and fierce Yara, I cannot hold on…the straddling…I am the particles, I am the wave…” Yara closed her pinwheel eyes to feel him, to take him in entirely as his final words were brushed into her with each soft and fading stroke of his voice.

Being a daughter of the harsh tundra of the ____ Settlement on the shores of the cold and unpredictable Ageless Sea, Yara could survive any storm, adapt with every change in weather, pick up and rebuild from utter devastation as if smoothing a skirt ruffled from a tiny gust of wind. Through her, the blood of her ancestors ran hot and strong, their DNA indestructible. Even in death, when they were sent adrift to burn on the pyre, their Souls flashed their release into the sky as the elegant, sweeping dance of the Aurora Borealis. Yara knew strength and safety, stability and perseverance, but she knew nothing of softness until Janus. So, though she knew everything that this meant, their splitting at the fork in the road, Yara ate her heel of bread, got up from the table, and carried on with life; she to Veil’s Edge to raise their children in the flesh and blood world, and he to walk to The Zero in silence, to carry forth the dawning of the New Humanity.

Although she did not linger in disappointment nor lament discomfort, Yara also was not immune to pain, she was not immune to the emptiness of loss. And though she had never known what it was to want before, she felt a tug of wanting as she turned, pausing from pulling the sled that carried their two bundles, to watch Janus trudge away—his last words settling like a sweet netting of moss over the tundra of her heart.

“I Love you,” he said to their children, to her.

I Love you, she sent to his receding back, then carried on her Way.
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The Land that Time Forgot
“Will you not come with us?” Shiraz asked, again. “It has become just so quiet here. Even for me. I used to like the quiet. I used to like everything. Some things I do not like anymore.”

“Oh, child, we are All Right here. This is our Home. And the quiet, you will come to like it again,” Moona cooed reassuringly to the child.

“If you say so, then it will be so,” Shiraz conceded, eyes welling up with the tears that had not stopped flowing for over a week now—a whole week now since Finn and Relic’s wake, and the trio was the last to leave after the witches.

“Child,” Moona said, gently placing her hand on Shiraz’s shoulder, “our place is here, to usher, to make Way,” and when she saw that was not enough for Shiraz, she continued to explain.

“Come,” Moona said, and they sat on the stone bench just outside the door. “All of my children left The Cove many many years ago, now elsewhere in the world doing their part in its creation. Things they could not do had they stayed here. They followed their callings, their individual purposes. My Beloved—yes you look surprised, I have a Beloved—my children’s father, he now lives permanently in his animal form. You may have met him in the sea,” she said conspiratorially.

“But do not feel sad for those of us you feel are left behind, for you are not considering that we have not been left but have chosen to stay. I am held and content here. We hold the space for change. We hear and receive the echoes, the pain and suffering of the past, we assist in healing the wounds of our ancestors, we ferry Beyonderers to the OtherWorlds, guide those lost at sea to the land, and when it calls us home, we return to the Ocean of Everything.

“We are an artefact, sweet child, an echo of the past creations, which are also relics that awaits discovery by those who pass through here or take the Time to notice. We contribute by holding this space for the new future of our people, anchoring those who would otherwise be set adrift—this our offering to the next generation,” she said and smiled gently but not without light.

“I will not feel sad for you, for I know you are well and happy, Aunty, but I feel sad for me,” Shiraz admitted. “I will not forget you,” she promised.

“No, no, sweetness, do not forget us. And we will not forget you, for how could we ever?” Moona said, eyes softening even more with kindness, wiping Shiraz’s tears that endlessly kept coming. “How could we ever?” she repeated for emphasis. “With Time you will stop feeling sad at our memory but glad. You will be happy because we existed. Because we will always exist. And you will smile.“

“That I Know,” Shiraz said, “tears slowing, leaning over to hug Moona around her large waist and lay her golden head on her breast. “That I know,” she whispered. After a few moments, they stood and rejoined Hermod, Yara, and Kilo on the gravel path before the cottage.

“Good bye, Uncle Hermod, Aunty Moona,” Yara said as they hugged their way through their farewells.

Through their magical, heartbreaking, transformative time at The Cove, Kilo came to understand their mother more, where she came from and what she came from, what stuff she was made of. Why she left.

We are on our way home, Kilo sent down their thread.

I am here, waiting, Camaria answered. Her warmth and sincerity felt as an embrace.

As they started along the coast then up the rocks on their 2-day journey back home to Veil’s Edge, Kilo fingered the small velvet-lined case he carried in his pocket. Inside was a treasure so dear he seldom unwrapped his fingers from its small encasement.

Days before, after the pyre had burned itself out, Shiraz, Kilo, and Erris had carefully sifted through the ash. It didn't take long for them to find what they were looking for, for they knew exactly where to look.

There were many ringsels as they had predicted, a dozen or so small ones and four large ones: pink, green, yellow, and bone-white. Shiraz was entrusted the green, Kilo the White, and Erris the yellow. The elders placed some of the small ones in Hermod’s care and scattered a few into the sea to be discovered by Seekers who dragged the depths of the Ageless with their nets.

“Please can I take the stone,” Kilo asked Shiraz gently the next day, “just for the night?”

“Yes, brother,” she granted, placing it carefully in Kilo’s patient hand. He knew that Moona was skilled in the arts, so he had asked her to bring him to her shop behind the cottage. There she gave him the supplies to work with and some instruction, although Kilo was already quite adept at making anything that he dreamed up in his mind—a talent and skill he got (inherited) from his mother.

Some of her supplies, clasps and chains, boxes and fabrics, were local or made/mined/forged from the rock and wood and elements in the settlement, but some were exotic, even otherworldly, from Sirius in the Deep East, ferried over the Ageless Sea.

Kilo disappeared for the whole of the next day, Moona in and out, Yara tending to the house and the nourishment, Hermod manning The Beacon, Shiraz at his side. And that night when he returned the green ringsel to his sister, Kilo had set it and hung the pendant from a lovely delicate, yet indestructible chain of a metal resembling silver.

“Now you can carry the emanations from Finn’s crystal wherever you beyonder,” Kilo said as he opened the clasp and placed it around his sister’s neck.

“I used a 6-prong setting so that it would not fall out,” Kilo said. “I hope it does not cover it too much.”

“Oh, Kilo, it’s perfect…you can make anything with your hands because it comes so easily from your heart,” Shiraz marvelled. “You can heal anything that is broken. You make me dream, again, Kilo. You make me want to go on,” Shiraz said, the tears flowing again, releasing grief, expressing gratitude.

Kilo did not make himself any jewellery to carry the ringsel he was entrusted with but placed it in a velvet-lined box to take back with them to Veil’s Edge. The pink stone was nested near the lantern in The Beacon. And Kilo had strung Erris’ into a strong, simple bracelet.

“My Brother, my Sister,” Erris pledged after Kilo presented him with the bracelet and placed it on his wide wrist, “we will meet again.”

Come Brother, Erris said to the essence of Finn as he positioned his worn rucksack over his broad shoulders. Let us make that journey now.
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SECTION BREAK: BACK TO CAMARIA

Into the Mystic
Camaria and Kage’s hearts beat in unison as they watched the fire lick the walls of the emerald-flecked hearth in front of where they sat on the couch wrapped in each other’s arms. Their conversation was low and intent, punctuated by pauses and Kage’s low rumbles of laughter; it was lazy as the fingers he ran along Camaria’s jawline, the back of her neck, when he kissed her, which was slow and often.

They had moved the black radio to the end table beside Kage so they would not break the spell of their cocoon when he needed to work, to manipulate, the dials. They were listening to The Pure (White?) Radio, which The Establishment remarkably permitted to air popular music on occasion. In day-to-day life, the musicians were free to create their music, to perform it, for it served as a brief outlet for the Citizens, to let some steam out of the pressure cooker. As long as they fulfilled their duties of real work for at least 40 hours a week, it was their reward. They invariably felt grateful for this allowance, forgetting entirely that it was The Establishment who withheld much more than it granted, assuming it had jurisdiction to even grant and withhold.

So, yes, they were permitted to create, but most had little time or energy left for creation, spent and heavy at the end of each and every day—their spirits lacklustre, their minds soft and dull. So, they listened and began to...what? Feel? Think? Wonder?…only to be promptly rerouted back to what The Establishment called The Real World.

We interrupt this program with a word from The Empire…

And these interruptions did not jar the Citizens awake, but lulled them back into complacency grasping for the dissipating tendrils of a question: What was I doing, again?

The Dark Radio, on the other hand, was banned, and the punishment for listening was a stint in The Rehabilitation Facility. The punishment for being a Voice on the Dark Waves, however, was unknown, but most were certain it was death as none of the Voices returned once caught—forever silenced by a hand around the throat. Camaria and Kage tuned into the Dark Radio on occasion, for Kage dismissed any authority aside from his own, and Camaria simply felt no obligation to comply being both unafraid and unbound.

But tonight they didn’t want to hear about any of the politics, the deaths, the wars, the corruption that was being unveiled; they simply wanted to receive and to dissolve.

So, Camaria and Kage enjoyed the sounds, explored the softness of each other’s lips, their exchange of breath. And between kisses, they simply sank further into the couch, into each other, and let the music gently stoke and fuel them. During one such pause, a musician began to sing to Camaria’s Gypsy Soul.

We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won
As we sailed into the mystic.

“Oh, Kage,” Camaria breathed, sitting up slightly to look into his face, his dark lavender-black eyes, “listen…” she implored.

“Yes, it’s a nice song,” Kage smiled sleepily, the arm behind her head bent so he could idly play with her hair. “But he’s just a musician, Camaria. It’s just a song.”

“Just a song?” Camaria knit her brow in the way she always did when impassioned and mildly confused. “Songs carry Truth. Listen, Kage. He is a Mystic,” Camaria asserted.

“They’re just songs, Camaria,” Kage laughed, “just words, cliches that everyone sings about. They don’t mean anything.” But despite his denial, he was moved in some way—bewitched, he decided—and he was mildly curious about that. In the end, he chalked it up to sentimentality, lust, and the enchantment of his Little Camaria, his deep and endless want for her. Perhaps it was Love, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered, he knew, was that she was his.

“But songs, words, they are significant, every note, every syllable…” She felt Kage’s mood shift, felt his heart beat out of sync with hers, when he cut her off mid-sentence.

“My God, Camaria, stop!” Kage exclaimed, sitting up more and turning to look her in the face. And as she opened her mouth to ask and implore, he silenced her with a kiss. And another. Attacking until she relented, melted into his heat, in unison once again in their wanting. Then without taking his lips from hers, before he moved his body over her and she lay back to pull him in, he reached over and turned up the radio.

And I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old
And together we will float
Into the mystic.
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A hush settled over the children and adults sitting in the circle. The StoryKeeper, her kaleidoscope eyes bright in the flickering firelight, all other eyes fixed on her in patient anticipation, began…

Not that long ago, in the Western Realm, Inside the Veil, just to the West of where you are sitting now, people were suffering a great deal.

There was war and hate and great anger and discontent. People were enslaved in body, mind, and spirit, their bodies bought and sold, their minds were their prisons, their souls bound in the webs of their own making. They worshiped false gods like money and power and chose to play games where there were no winners, believing that what they were living was reality.

And they turned on each other and themselves, they believed that there was not enough for everyone so they took, and stole, and hoarded. Their families and communities became fragmented, broken, discarded, and the people poisoned by the very things they created.

It wasn’t always this way for the people Inside the Veil. In fact, they themselves, created the Veil to keep what they had to themselves, what they treasured the most, which was money and power and things they could buy with that money and power, none of it giving them what they really truly desired, which is Love.

They induced their own Sleeping Sickness so that the pain that came instead of Love was forgotten, but in doing so, they forgot the songs of themselves and each other, they tuned out of the frequencies of the planet, they pulled the plug from abundance, joy, wonder, and health, they disconnected from the Great Mystery, from their very Source of Life.

So, as you can imagine, resources ran out, wars raged, sickness spread, horrific deeds were done to themselves and others. The air unbreathable, the food tainted and denatured, the technology unnatural, and the ways they lived automatic and mindless, where they could find no meaning, no purpose, their cultures shrivelled as an unattended garden.

The planet heaved and purged the poisons that were forced upon it through mighty Cleansing Storms and Earth Eruptions.

It got harder for our friends to survive in the world they created Inside the Veil, but survive they did for many years, but they would never truly live. Their Utopia became their prison, and it couldn’t be sustained.

The time came when everything they had built around them came crashing down–their systems, their beliefs, their economy, their technology. The shell cracked, the veil thinning so they could see glimpses of the Eastern Realm, and it was terrifyingly lovely. For the first time, those who took notice saw they could shed the Sleeping Sickness like the snake emerging from an old skin.

With every death there is a birth–this is a law of nature–and after the Great Collapse, the only thing that could come next was a new awakening, rising up in the deepest of sleeps to live awake in a More Beautiful Dream, a More Beautiful World.

We, my loves, we at Veil’s Edge are both witnessing and stewarding this Great Awakening.

So, all of you, my beloved people, listen well…this story is not a tragedy, an epic adventure, a comedy, a happy ending, nor is it a cautionary tale. It is all of it and so much more. This is the story of the people of Veil’s Edge. Our story—the ultimate story of love.
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The Roost
I want to fly like an Eagle, to the Sea
Fly like an Eagle, let my spirit carry me
I want to fly
Fly right into the future
-Seal
“Lyra, he will live,” the male voice said.
“He was lucky, Furkan. Many do not make the climb. He was reckless,” the female voice added, a bite of admonishment in her tone.
“I do not think so, Darling. I think it was his intention from the beginning. To die.” After a pause, understanding dawning, the female voice replied.
“Perhaps, yes. Yes,” she said.
“The children are calling…I can stay with him if you want to go,” Furkan said, and Kai could make out the faint, distant cry of little voices.
“He needs release,” Lyra said, “where his Human meets his Spirit.”
“Of course,” was her Darling’s reply. “His Earth and his Sky.”
Then the voices faded as the world turned black once more…
—----------
The man with the winged hair sat on the stool at the top of the bed where Kai lay on his back, Kai’s head between his knees though Furkan did not physically touch him. The boy was obviously congested at the Crown, his LifeForce pressing at the top of his head. Even as his body repaired while he slept, his face was tight with the pain of it. This force was not to be tempered, slowed, or tampered, but stirred, spun, allowed to release. So, when Furkan stepped into the Liminal and asked his permission, the young man answered yes.
“Yes, ____, that's it. What has weighted you will lift now. What you have pulled from below can now be gifted to the Sky,” Furkan said aloud as he moved his hand in a clockwise motion over the crown of Kai’s head, the opening it created releasing a toroid of infinite energy like birds from a cage. Their flight rose in a great whoosh that showered multi-coloured, soft, over Kai’s Field, in the Field he and the wing-haired man shared, rained down toward his feet, now able to re-enter from Kai’s root carrying new energy to receive and to give with its liberation. Kai’s nose began to run with fluid that flowed through his spine, his cerebrum, and Furkan was satisfied with the sign.
—----------
When Kai came to, the final throbs in his head squeezing him from the sanctuary of sleep, he felt before he witnessed the presence of others in the room. It was this presence rather than his aches that caused him to finally crack an eye. He was greeted by three children, curious and somewhat serious, with dark silver eyes that swam/churned like pools, peering at him from where they stood lined up along the side of his simple single cot.
“Emery, Valencia, Enso,” a woman who must have been their mother, the same woman whose voice he’d heard when he’d tried to come to before, hissed in a whisper as she entered the room. “You three were to let him be. He must rest,” she scolded, brow furrowing, her own silver eyes churning thick with heat.
Though they listened to their mother, none of them seemed perturbed by her scolding. They could have been no more than six, and were certainly the same age, triplets in fact, Kai decided: the boy and one of the girls being fire-haired like their mother, the other girl, smaller than her siblings, was crowned with a hair cloud an amber so burnt it was almost black, an argent that burned with fire if there was such a colour. They were dressed identically in plain, clean, comfortable clothing: loose tunics and pants that stopped mid-calf and were tied at the waist. The sight of them sent a shock of ache through Kai’s heart for his own babe, his little Lila.
“Furkan!” Lyra tossed over her shoulder without breaking eye contact with Kai, “our guest has awakened.”
And to Kai she said, “you were fortunate up on the mountain,” and Kai felt as if he were being scolded along with the children. Somehow this comforted him, that she cared enough to chide him, a subtle induction into her circle of Loved Ones. He felt safe within her ferocity, the ferocity of her Love.
Kai did not defend his actions because he knew she already understood, and in any case, he did not feel that her words were an act of Conflict but of Understanding. Something told him that she had done the same…in another time…in another place…through another story she held within her…
“I’m ok,” Kai said as he slowly sat himself up in the bed, “they’re ok,” he said, referring to the children who didn’t look as if they would leave anyway unless their mother insisted.
“You must be curious,” Kai said to the children once he was fully upright. Their continued presence was answer enough, though the taller girl said: “yes.”
So, when Furkan entered the room—smile animating his beautifully weathered cheeks—and introduced them as the Stewards of The Roost, Lyra plainly asked Kai how he’d come to be a corpse on The Crown of Tibet.
Kai’s tongue loosed, and raising himself a bit on the pillow so he could speak, he told the family everything from the time he’d landed on Cold Mountain—from the beginning, from the middle, from the end of that story…everything. By the time he’d finished, Lyra and Furkan sat close together in chairs they’d pulled up to listen, and all three children had joined him on the bed.
“Come, you will need some fresh air,” Lyra said when Kai’s tale was told.
“Let us show you around,” Furkan added, and the trinity of their children worked as a team to help him up.
“There is a room where you can tend to your washing through that door,” Lyra told Kai, noticing his attempt to smooth his black hair as he indulged his body in a stretch. “When you are ready we will be outside.”
“Thank you,” Kai said to the couple, to the children, to them all. And meant it.
—---------------
So this is The Roost, Kai thought as the family led him around the settlement. It looked, smelled, felt exactly as Amara had reported, though with much more depth, the patience that it would take to describe more than Amara possessed. Of course, both Amara and The Ice Man had visited many times over the years, yet almost always at separate occasions, and rarely as planned excursions. The Ice Man spoke of the place with great gestures and exclamations; Amara simply held the mystery through her sparse yet precise recounting. Tallulah, well, she’d preferred to stay close to home but did watch intently when a travelling Great Hawk would reveal its presence through a great screech and its shadow cast on the land from above.
The entire settlement was built on a plateau stretched yet nestled between a quadrinity of peaks where The Great Flyers built their nests. It was an immensely busy place, the people going about various chores and activities, their main purpose to live well, care for each other and their children, and encourage strength of body and mind in their community, as well as the Travellers who came to them for such teachings. Their feathered companions contributed to the awakening of the Spirit through the gifts of Sight and Wings.
Their way of living was graceful yet potent, their existence centred around the care, going-on, and organization of a lively and creative community. In gratitude for their cohabitation, the Humans performed tasks for The Great Flyers, which were tasks the birds did not really need but appreciated; and The Great Flyers did things for Humans that they did need but did not always enjoy. The Gifts of Sight and Liberation required a level of Grace and Acceptance that was not always accessible to the Human.
The Great Flyers were self-sufficient, of course, could see All from the heights at which they soared, yet welcomed/exalted in the new smells, textures, flavours that were picked up from the Grounded’s earthly travels. Every other land was a Lowland from the perspective of The Roost as The Roost was the highest point in the Realm, in all Realms, except of course for the Sky and the Heavens.
For the most part, the children let their parents tell Kai the story—about the history of the place, their roots there, how the Humans came to live amongst The Great Flyers—because no matter how many times they’d heard the tales, each time they delighted in their parents’ telling, in the lightning strike of awe that marked every Traveller with whom they shared their majestical Home.
The place was a nest that had been woven together over the generations, the beginning so long in the past that no one could remember a time when the Great Flyers and the Humans had not cohabitated there. Throughout the Decades, the Millennia, the Æons, the settlement was built with materials from all around the Realm brought up to The Roost, stick by stick, by the birds and the people.
“We receive many visitors here: Travellers from all over the Realm and from other Realms,” Lyra told him, explaining the bustle of the place, the variety of dress and dialects Kai picked up by way of observation.
“Yes, we do as well, on Cold Mountain,” Kai said, “though only in the warmer seasons when the roads are clear of snow, and usually only passing through as our settlement is a homestead rather than a hub such as this,” he continued, sensorially taking in the flow of activity. “What is it they seek when they come?” he asked, though he felt he already knew/intuited the answer.
“Well,” Furkan interjected with lightness, “people come here to realise what they need to realise. They come to train and to fine-tune, to be in the presence of The Great Flyers, but what they learn is not exactly what they’d planned, which is really in the end the same for everyone: to learn to listen to themselves.”
“I was born and raised here, at The Roost,” Lyra told Kai as they approached a busy kiosk for a ladle of soup. Lyra held up 6 fingers to indicate their request to their Friend and cook who smiled, nodded, and set to work dispensing their lunch.
“Furkan was not born here,” Lyra said as they looked Furkan’s way who had strayed to another kiosk for some bread. “He hails from the South-West rim of the Western Realm, between World’s Edge and The Haunted Kingdom…do you know it?” she asked, glancing his way for a moment before acknowledging their Friend who was now placing the bowls on the counter before them.
“I do not. I have not ventured into the Western Realm,” Kai admitted as Lyra handed a full bowl to each of the children, then to Kai, then took one for herself and Furkan. A round of introductions and thank-yous went around the space: with the Friend, between each other.
“In any case, it no longer exists,” Lyra told him as they seated themselves around a wooden picnic style table in the settlement square in the full glory of the Sun. “It is part of the Bewilderness of that Realm now. A place of Once Was.”
“Yes, I am familiar with places of Once Was,” Kai shared.
“What have I missed?” Furkan asked, returning with the bread, breaking and distributing it among them, then seating himself beside Lyra.
“Kai was just about to tell us about his place of Once Was,” Lyra told him.
“Ah, yes, please. Sorry for the interruption, Kai. Please, go on,” Furkan invited, smoothing his wild glinting hair feathers, his tunic, settling himself to listen.
And Kai told them, mindful of how he would tell the story, which was somewhat sad and bleak, in the presence of the young children who were active in their patient listening. He finished his brief telling just as their bowls were emptied, the family all floating/suspended/spinning on, pulled by the tailwind of his history.
“Kai, go with Furkan to the Training Grounds, and he will show you around for a few minutes before his students arrive. When you are through, I will meet you up on that crest,” Lyra said, pointing to the plateau on the northern peak.
“I am allowed up there?” Kai asked, for some reason feeling somewhat unworthy.
“Everyone is,” Furkan assured him. “Just not all take the Time.”
“We can watch their lessons from there,” Lyra told him after a beat. “Furkan is quite something to watch,” she continued, shifting her gaze to the man, not a hint of shyness nor blush, only sincere admiration/respect/reverence for her Beloved in the fierce metallic silver of her eyes.
“The feeling is mutual,” Furkan reflected in the mirror that was their Love.
“Children, what do you choose today?” Lyra asked, gracefully cooling then enlarging their energetic embrace to include their children and their guest.
“I will go with Papa,” Valencia said.
“I would like to weave some more with Grandmother Eagle,” Emery said. “We have many baskets to finish and a lot of people who need them.”
“Yes, she is expecting you,” Lyra said. “And you, Enzo?” she said, turning her attention to her Son.
“I would also like to join Papa,” Enzo declared. “He says I need to turn some of my energy into skill.”
“Hahaha,” Furkan laughed. “Let us go, then,” he said as he and the children headed off toward the Centre.
“I will see you shortly,” Lyra said to Kai, and Kai nodded, jogged a few quick steps to catch up to the father and children. Lyra split from the group to escort Valencia to the ____ quarter where GrandMother Eagle waited but did not wait.
—---------
“I met Lyra in the Training Houses in Veil’s Edge when I served there for a time,” Furkan told Kai as they walked. “I trained The 7 for physical endurance before they left on their expedition/mission/quest/odyssey/excursion/voyage to the Western Realm.”
“Lyra was an Envoy? One of The 7?” Kai asked, voice moving up a few notes in surprise. He had heard much about the 7, of course: Camaria, Kilo’s dear friend, and Shiraz, Kilo’s sister, being among them. How many years had it been since The 7 had departed? 8 years? Lyra could not have been there long since she and Furkan’s children were around the age of 6. A few of them came back within a year, perhaps two, Kai had heard. A few had yet to return.
“Yes. Her experience was not pleasant,” was all Furkan offered on the subject. And although Kai was curious, he did not press.
“I will let her tell you the tale of how we ended up here together. The beginning is difficult and hurts the Heart (cut a deep wound in Lyra’s Heart), but the middle, the point at which we are forever at anyway, is a part of our unfurling story that heals her to tell.”
“What about you, Furkan? Your life in the Western Realm?” Kai ventured. “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Ha, she told you my dirty little secret, then, that my origins are in the West?” Furkan said as he scooted the children off to gather the staffs and mats necessary for the training.
“Go,” Furkan instructed the children, “they will be arriving soon.”
“Dirty secret?” Kai queried, somewhat confused.
“I jest, I jest, Kai. It is Western humour,” Furkan reassured him, an easy smile playing on his face.
“Help me with these,” Furkan said, handing a bundle of towels to Kai as Enzo carefully laid out the mats with precision, taking time to perfectly align them with the directions. “The students are arriving.”
“Heyo, ___,” Furkan called to one of the students as he noticed Valencia struggling with several sticks that were longer/taller than she, “please help Valencia to distribute the Jo Staffs.”
Then to Kai he promised: “I will tell you more tonight when we receive the day’s last meal.”
“For now, we sweat, for now we train!” Furkan exclaimed to the group who had gathered that consisted of all ages of people, from children to elders, yet all seeming to be quite skilled in the Physical Arts, at least more skilled than Kai, who was by no means unfit.
Furan dropped his tunic to reveal his muscled arms and torso, smile laced with mischief brightening his face, transforming from Father to Warrior, appearing now, from Kai’s purview, wild, lithe, ready to spar, with the Wind in his feathers and the Sun at his back.
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SECTION BREAK (A Pause, A Breath, Before the Pivot)
KAGE
The Viper and the Fawn
In the pasture of this world, I endlessly push aside the tall grasses in search of the bull. Following unnamed rivers, lost upon the interpenetrating paths of distant mountains, My strength failing and my vitality exhausted, I cannot find the bull. I only hear the locusts chirring through the forest at night.
-The Ten Bulls
At fifteen, Kage had never received a mark less than 87 in any test, which was pathetic enough. Until today.
“Father, it was only a test.”
Kage’s father’s hand shot out with a slap to his face—quick as a viper, stinging like a hornet.
At that very moment, something in Kage closed as tight as a clamshell sealing off the pearl inside—enclosed in a buzzing that overcame all other sound.
His mother only cooed to him later in the bathroom as she dabbed the spot where Father’s ring split his cheek. So little and so late. The pathetic, impotent fawning. The anxious excuses she made for his father—the weightless, meaningless words—never finding purchase with all the space taken up by the persistent nest of hornets in his ears, his head.
“He didn’t mean it. He knows no other way. You can take the test again. You will show him.”
He pushed her hand away. Her black eyes shone with desperation. His own a deep lavender only moments before, now only black, cold, empty. For she would not protect him, and all he could hear was: “you are not enough.”
But he was. He would not need protection. He would show them. He would show them all.
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The Artist’s Way
Late, it was so late, and within the pool of Mother Moon’s mirrored light, Camaria’s hands moved over the gently textured canvas, the white cloudscape that sat patiently waiting for the rendering of the storm, the sun, the stars, the rain…
Camaria reflected on how she could never have predicted this, what gifts would pour forth from Pandora’s Box, on the day she decided to answer the Call of the Envoy, when she decided to find who else was calling from within what was labelled as “Suffering.”
What would she bring Home, she had wondered. What seeds would she plant and would be planted within her? Instinct led her hand to her belly, as if in answer, then her Heart followed with a rush of Love, of Tenderness, of Joy haloed with Sadness.
Camaria Knew suffering now, and yet, she Knew Letting Go, she Knew Choice and Possibilities; she Knew what it was to plant seeds and to be planted, so in that Way, Camaria grew/expanded with both Life and Wisdom.
So she painted the Memory Tree, how she imagined it would look now, she painted tendrils and cherry blossoms, fine china and ribboned gifts, a forest of seedlings from the view at the highest point of The Wheel; she painted slick serpent skin, great black wings, glossy doe eyes; she painted fangs and fences, bloodied knuckles and still bodies; she painted The Bond, merging and what emerged from it within a raspberry border to womb it all.
She’d blended the colours together yet formed new patterns, the medium of paint and blood and tears and laughter, forever and eternally creating her self and other things...
She could not choose a title, so she called it The Garden, she called it The Box, she called it Portrait of My Self.
Her mother might have called it: The Great Mystery at Play.
As she stood back from the painting, Camaria thought again about Pandora and the ancient box, about her desire for Wisdom that was spoken into existence that night in The Garden when she decided to answer The Call. She suspected that Wisdom required, for her, not the ability to predict but the capacity to dance, to create, to birth something beautiful, something meaningful, something precious, from so many endings, for every ending holds the seed of a new beginning.
After some study, Camaria finally took out her pointed round brush, and with its fine tip began to accent the small and delicate details of the unfolding, The Way, The Key and The Compass, the eternal Story that kept bringing (forever brought) her Home.
And All was All Right.
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Mani Hands Make Little Work
Outside, Mother Moon shone her full face, illuminated the entire landscape in her gentle, pale glow, the first crackings of dawn yet an hour or two away. Frost still coated the ground every night before the morning Sun’s melting kisses, as spring had not yet yielded to the heat of their brief but brilliant summer—so, Elder Mani and Kilo met inside the workshop for their practice.
Though Mani had designed and helped to build it several decades ago, the workshop was rather simple—rectangular in shape, no curves or balconies, no moonroofs or buttresses, stripped logs stacked for walls sealed and buffered from the outside cold, a common cabin structure devoid of any adornments, except for perhaps the long tables that lay ready for the unscrolling of the blueprints for the current creation/building project and the cabinets, shelves, and drawers that lined the outer walls, the chairs they could pull up for meetings or fold when they stood pouring over an expanse of blueprints. It was open, sturdy, and practical, yet also homey, warm, and still beautiful; a space for the meeting of many bright minds.
As they readied their practice space in a corner of the room, Kilo and Mani heard a small click as the door closed. The new arrivals quietly stepped from the moonlight and into the warm workshop where Kilo had already lit a fire in the closest of the three hearths that lined the West wall. Django had entered holding the hand of little Alora who’d followed, quite alert but taking a second to rub her left eye with her free fist.
“Welcome,” Elder Mani greeted with an immediate, natural smile of delight.
The four of them arranged their mats and cushions, which were stashed in a wall cabinet, and set about their practice.
—-------
The rest of the longhouses came to life just as savasana ended. The four returned to sitting, shared a resounding om together—even Django and Alora giving their full voices to the space—then rose and rolled their mats up with an eagerness to get started with the day of building and creating.
“Let us begin!” Mani exclaimed, clapping his hands. Kilo moved to one of the tables to spread out the blueprints. Django dipped his head to Elder Mani in agreement, quickening his pace to follow Alora who was already opening the door to join their rising family and the sun that lured/coaxed/beconed/alured them from their beds.
“I will return after some breakfast,” Django promised. As they left, their mother, Octavia, was entering carrying some tea, bread, and honey for Kilo and Mani. She brushed a kiss on her daughter’s head then her son’s cheek as they passed each other in the doorway.
“Mama,” Django greeted with a nod and a smile, Alora bounding off to cross the clearing.
“Son,” Octavia smiled back. “I am looking forward to hearing about yesterday’s journey,” she added.
“I am looking forward to telling you…and Papa, too,” Django replied, his dark thick-lashed eyes brightening with the memory. “I would Sight you, but I think it more important to tell the Story.”
“Yes, Son, me, as well,” Octavia answered, pausing for a moment, then her attention turned to the men inside the workshop and Django’s to his quickly escaping sister.
“Good morning, good morning!” Django heard his mother exclaim to the men as she continued on her way inside, her voice fading as Django followed Alora away from the workshop and toward the longhouse to break their fast.
Breakfast was organized but easy, smoothly running like the TimeKeeper’s clockwork, yet masqueraded as chaos, as was usual when the families got together. The older cousins, Daphne and Kai, served up the food Amara, Adonis, and Jazz were cooking in the main cabin, Adonis eating his breakfast as he cooked. The food on the tables were repeatedly replenished by Sanja and Simone who acted as runners carrying steaming bowls of potatoes, greens, root vegetables, pancakes, and eggs to the longhouse once each batch was ready. Being light morning eaters, Sanja and Simone were happy with the apples they munched between runs.
The Ice Man had eaten early in the kitchen after plunging into the lake and was already checking the chicken coops for new eggs— feeding, watering, and talking to his hens. The rooster, well, the rooster was strutting about but thankfully his cock-a-doodle-doos were settling down for the morning. Normally Red was a quiet old bird, but when there was action, he wanted to be part of it.
Those who slept later or who already helped with prep were lined up holding plates, chatting, or jostling about as they made their way to the front of the line. The bunch parted for Hector and Yara to receive their food first so they could make their way to the workshop to get organized, to have jobs set and ready for the many helping hands once breakfast was finished and cleaned up, the execution of which would be expertly spearheaded by Daphne whose rich voice boomed throughout the longhouse.
“Lionel, honey!” She exclaimed. “You’re next! How much of this? Yes. Ok, and none of this? No potatoes this morning?...”
“Ok, hon. Yes, of course, bring some for Tallulah and your Mama. Tallulah already got some tea for the two of them. Yes, very nice, Lionel.”
“Who's next?! Alora, honey, get the flapjacks from Cousin Kai. He has the molasses…or do you like syrup?”
“Diana, can you sub off Uncle Adonis in the Main Cabin when you’re finished?...thank you thank you, love. And good morning, Shiraz! Godiva and Demeter, you were up late again, I see!” And on it went until all were subbed off and cycled through and fed. The late risers replenished the food stores in the Main Cabin from the storage house and washed the plates that each person brought back to the kitchen once their users were full and ready for work.
And if this was not impressive enough, the erecting of the magnificent new longhouses was a sight to be seen.
Tallulah, Octavia, and Simone took Alora and Lionel with them into the longhouse to sew the many cushions they would need for completing the furniture. Mattresses, bedding, bed frames, lanterns, and other furnishings had been stockpiled there the spring before and the spring before that. Octavia was grateful they had prepared as it had made it much easier for them to travel light this year, and she reflected on this as she and Tallulah set up the sewing machines. Magnificent machines, Octavia marvelled, the ingenuity shared by a Traveller from the West and replicated by Yara and Kalea some two decades ago.
“Are you alright, dear?” Octavia asked Tallulah as they worked and Simone was on the couch helping and working with Alora and Lionel on their ______ out of earshot.
“Yes Auntie, I’m All Right,” Tallulah answered, “quite All Right, in fact. I am learning how to hear my Little Raven when he visits but also to let him go when he is Elsewhere,” she continued as she peered closely at a needle as she threaded it. “I must share with you what we have learned through The Letting Go. I understand in ways I could not before. Kai had seen so much death but had never let go. I had not seen any so never had to…Ah, but Auntie, I still wish my first Letting Go had not been him. My precious Little Raven,” she said as the thread found its mark and slipped through the eye of the needle.
“He is showing us. The Sight. The Bridge. The SpiritWorld. And I can sometimes cross it. It is wondrous and Otherworldly. Yet I am still getting used to it, how foreign it is, how unlike anything I could have imagined, yet entirely real. When he visits, it is him but not all of him. I hope that makes sense. I am not always sure if I am making sense.”
“Of course, my girl,” Octavia assured her. “I have been there, as well. And it is not something you can understand until it is essential that you do.”
“Yes, Auntie,” Tallulah said, and the women continued their work, conversation moving back and forth from Little Raven to their project—the stitching and the sewing. Outside there was a boom and loud voices, and the two women and the children glanced up and out the windows to see what the commotion was all about.
“Let it roll!” The Ice Man bellowed. “And stay out of the way!” He added, though no one had to be reminded of that, all sanding on the north treeline as the giant log rolled down the hill crashing to a halt in the clearing.
“Yes that worked just fine,” Mani said in approval, wiping his bare hands on his pants, cupping and warming them with his breath, then returning them to the warmth of his gloves. It was warm enough now to work outside most of the day, but just barely.
“Yara! Stand by, though. We will not be able to move the next one by ourselves. There are too many trees in the way that we do not want to disturb, including that ancient one there,” The Ice Man said pointing a stubby, thick finger in the direction of the tree, pulling at his beard with the other hand, “the one with Tallulah’s swing in it, the one Kai perches on so many times a day.”
“That is indeed a beloved tree,” Mani added. “I can remember even my own Shanti swinging from its boughs on our visits.”
“It is, of course, a Memory Tree,” Tallulah said to the group, now in the doorway of the longhouse having taken a break from the inside work to observe the activity.
“Can I swing?!” Alora asked, pushing past Tallulah’s skirts.
“Not right now,” Tallulah said and the girl halted, “later when there is no more moving of heavy things. We do not want you to get injured,” she added.
“Oh no, we do not,” Alora asserted, contemplating, content to wait, yet imagining the swinging she would enjoy later, perhaps at sunset before bedtime washing, singing, and stories.
“Yara?” The Ice Man repeated, returning them to the task at hand, “will you assist us with that magic you learned in the East?”
“It is not magic, Ice Man,” Yara said, “it is simple _______.”
“Yeeeessss, yeeeessssss, I know, my Friend. But magic is the only word I have for it being a simple man of the forest,” The Ice Man countered.
“Simple indeed. You are anything but that!” And she was rewarded by an outburst of The Ice Man’s hearty laugh and the laughter of most gathered in the clearing.
————-
Later, before bedtime washing and stories and singing, after Octavia had brushed out her hair and fastened the curls into two round afro puffs on either side of her head and released her, Tallulah pushed Alora in the swing of the Memory Tree.
“Higher!” Alora squeaked, pumping her skinny legs, frosty breath escaping from her mouth. “Higher!” she exclaimed.
Tallulah laughed, shawl discarded on the ground, braids undone, chestnut hair swinging wildly with the effort, and pushed Alora higher.
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Shiraz (Secret Song)
Kalea stepped out into the back garden through the small wooden door of their house. She looked up and out of her distracted thoughts of tomorrow to find Shiraz, the poet, sitting cross-legged on the great, grey boulder in the middle of the walking labyrinth. She was basking in the early morning sun that was already warming her seat, her long, loose ivory skirt arranged in her lap. Pencils were stuck here and there in her loosely bound hair, golden streaks catching the sun just so. Her battered satchel was strung across her chest, undoubtedly full of notebooks she stitched herself from the handmade paper she had acquired from Octavia.

“Good morning, Kalea,” she offered.

“Good morning, Shiraz!” Kalea warmly replied. Shiraz travelled a great deal between settlements, even as far as into the Western Realm, so Kalea was delighted to have this unexpected visit, for she knew what it meant to have a poet wander into one’s yard.

Shiraz was all roundness, softness, slender yet full-figured, spry but mindful in movement; she was young in body but ancient in soul. Her ever-warm expression melted all defences with pinwheel hazel eyes not unlike her twin brother Kilo’s, her long thick lashes resting on her high round cheekbones with every slow and careful blink.

Shiraz didn’t speak in meaningless riddles as some of the Newcomers claimed, although Kalea knew Shiraz embellished with descriptors that hit the poet’s bullseye with precision. She animated, adorned, and anchored in metaphor; she spoke the Essential, the Truth, because that was all that was worth speaking.

Shiraz Made anything she contemplated a texture one could touch, a fragrance one could smell, a sensation felt so thoroughly that one could not help but be transfixed and transformed by her SpellCasting. Her words were a dance, a churning cauldron, they dripped from the fingers like sticky linden honey to an open mouth eager to taste their bitter-sweetness. For this, in fact, was what a poet did.

“It is an honour and a delight to see you, young sprite. Have you come to visit Diana?” Kalea asked.

“I have. Yes. My Diana. And others,” she invited.

“And what have you been exploring since I saw you last?” Kalea asked, approaching to sit next to her on the grand rock.

“Oh, wandering, wondering, beyondering, musing, and conversing,” she sighed. “Gathering, placing every flower into my satchel.”

“Camaria leaves for the Western Realm tomorrow, as you know” Kalea ventured, picking up on a conversation that had already begun in another time and dimension. “I know that she is her own self, but I feel a desire to hang on to her anyway. This is not what I expected, for I have not expected much in the past except that we cannot expect.”

Kalea paused. Shiraz listened to the silence between the words. Kalea began again: “I am surprised by this. I know that we cannot be separate, my daughter and I, but feel the separation all the same. It is like a piece of my heart is being cut from me with a dull blade.”

“It means that she Matters to you, Kalea.”

“Yes, she so very much Matters to me, Shiraz.”

“For that, she will not disappear.”

“I will feel her like so many others cannot, I can feel her now…but I won't see her with my eyes, hear her with my ears, and somehow that feels like loss.”

“And your Human is resisting. She is hanging on.”

“Yes. With every finger. And tightly so. This is not The Way. Not the way I am supposed to be.”

“And what is The Way, Kalea? How are you supposed to be?”

“I am to desire nothing but what comes. To allow for the blossom. And one cannot clutch a flower, or it will die. My thoughts are clutching. They are clinging.”

“They are flowers I shall place into my satchel.” The two women were silent for a few minutes.

“I ache, Shiraz. My Human aches.”

“Where is the ache, where is it in your Human body, Kalea?”

“It is heavy,” Kalea said and let the word land on her brow, her expression. “It tugs down the corners of my mouth. It presses my chest, and I catch myself absently rubbing that spot, rubbing and rubbing.”

“What does the ache taste like?”

“Taste? I’m not sure. Salty, like tears, I suppose.”

“What does it do?”

“It uselessly places sticks into an empty nest.”

“What is it, then, exactly?”

“It is a hummingbird.”

“Can you free it?”

“Yes, I believe I can.”

“Speak it, Kalea. What does the ache feel like?”

“I suppose, I would say: heartbreakingly beautiful.” And Shiraz smiled at that.

“Heartbreakingly beautiful,” Shiraz echoed, released aloud, for once a word has been intoned, it forever resounds in the Æther.

“Write your Camaria now, Kalea, into All Realities. And write your hummingbird who escorts the traveller and wishes them well, who is ready for when the time comes to escort them back home. Do not hang on, but release them into eternity.”

Shiraz reached into her satchel and pulled out a notebook—this one adorned with lavender flowers and flighted birds—pulled a pencil from her hair, and handed both to Kalea.

“You are here to experience it all, MamaKalea. Remember what you have also said to me when I have sat on the other side of this boulder: you asked for this.”

“I did, indeed,” Kalea smiled, then laughed as a gossamer-winged butterfly landed on the book’s glinting latch.

As Shiraz sat with Kalea—her words a sword, her presence a chalice, wisps of her hair dancing with the breeze—Kalea marvelled at the characters she transposed onto the lavender paper, marvelled at what she created as a mother might gaze upon the face of her sleeping child, just a sweet hint of longing to keep her writing and writing.

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Mute
Nestling into their new home in the country, Camaria had some weeks to think and process the experiences she’d had in the city as they prepared for the birth of their baby. The walk to the city border took an hour, and even if Kage could drive her in the car, she still didn’t have Papers.

So, she planted a garden, built some furniture, built a shed with the assistance of a few local folks Kage had arranged to help. Kage had furnished a small workshop in the back of the garage with tools so Camaria could continue the traditions of her uncles, so she could craft and create what would nourish, house, and hold them with her very own hands.

After planting the last seed in the earth, soil she’d turned with a small plough and the strength of an ox Kage had purchased, Camaria stood with her hands on her back to stretch, to take in the Home she and Kage were creating. The black earth where the seeds were nestled was not barren as The Empire warned it would be. The same earth that caked her gloves was the same earth that lined the cracks of her uncle Duke’s strong but gentle hands. And in those moments as she stretched, Camaria had no idea what more they could want, except she did desire friends. And of course, Kage’s Freedom.

Kage continued to return to the city for work, business, and supplies such as food, but he was working more and more from home, closed in his office for hours, but home all the same—one step, two steps, a slow, careful, intentional untangling from the ties that bound him his entire gilded life—the filigree of threads now a knot of fishing line cutting deeper should he struggle too greatly.

Camaria could feel a tightness about him still, even here in the country, a rigidity necessary to stop the cutting. But she could also feel the tremor of his wriggling, his wanting to thrash as if a fish on a hook, the ties to his old life not yet severed.

Kage picked up his pencil while sitting at the desk of his office each day, working and manipulating the numbers he scratched on the papers, both marking and attempting to erase himself and his new family from the books. The inequitable mathematical formulas did not add up, and he could not fashion with a pencil, nor with the impermanence of conjecture, the armour a horde of coin could provide them no matter how many times he ran the numbers. He did not wish for Zero, but for many zeros, so although he no longer wanted to be counted, he still wanted to count. Yet Camaria knew that the only calculation necessary to compute was that one plus one equalled three.

You + Me = Us, Kage.

With each day that passed, with every meal consumed, with every provision bought and paid for, Kage’s savings dwindled. The house was owned without debt, as there was no credit in the realm since the Crash and Burn that followed the end of the Age of Technology, but they still needed Provisions, and his rations alone would not feed all three of them. Though Camaria knew how to harvest and build and create, Kage could not understand how they could sustain themselves on Love alone…and he wanted, well, more.

Kage’s time was largely spent sorting out their future. Though his presence in the present would surely replenish and overflow his starving Soul, he did not Trust. His fixation on the uncertainty of what was to come continued to devour his reserves, depleting the coffers of his mind and of his heart. So, Kage was always hungry, looking for the next meal before even enjoying the bounty they sat to dine on each and every night.

When he voiced his concern—of scarcity, of limitation—Camaria received and also assured that they could, indeed, live off of what they grew and built themselves, that GaiaSophia and the Universe were abundant. This did not console but scared him, fear that came out as impatience, as hot flickers of frustration Camaria weathered but experienced more and more as the pressure squeezed and suppressed Kage’s internal wriggling.

In the evenings, when they came together after their days apart, Camaria had endless questions, her contemplations leading to yet more questions. She wondered about the health of the people’s physical bodies, the young ages at which they died, the diseases they suffered from. She wondered where their elders were, why they believed in vengeful gods and that the spirit world was something to be feared. She wondered why they chose pain, why they could not see that survival was more imminent if they would work together rather than compete. She wondered why they didn’t know about the OtherWorlds or that GaiaSophia was not a resource to mine, to rape, to ruin, but a benevolent celestial being that housed, nourished, and recycled them.

She had learned through her Envoy preparation that the West had its own reality, but she was mystified to find that it deviated so far from Truth, from Wisdom, from the Divinity of the people who agreed to it.

So Camaria questioned everything. Inquired and probed. Curious and sometimes confused. When he was available, she asked Kage about whatever she thought he might know, and at first he was patient—but the more she asked, the more his laughing and half-answers felt patronising rather than wise. And for Kage, her inquiries started to annoy rather than charm him as they once had done.

There were some things Kage didn’t know, some things he didn’t want to know. And some of what he professed as Truth was simply regurgitated from inherited belief. He fed her these regurgitations at first like a bird to its fledgeling, and he was relieved when her beak finally closed thinking he had stuffed her full.

Camaria had come to realise that she was not there to learn Truth but simply the truths of this Reality, and by doing so, she would come to the Wisdom she set out to discover and uncover so many months before. So, no she was not full, not nourished, she had simply taken flight to find more of the Truth elsewhere.

What she’d heard over the radio and had observed during her encounters in the city was a puzzle for her to solve; everything twisted and distorted, nothing fitting quite right. And so many things the people believed Camaria knew to be untrue. The radio was distortion—both The Pure and the Dark—it transmitted pain and deception. So she decided to tune out altogether for the sweet solace of the countryside, for the sigh of silence within her where the answers already lay (lie).

She spoke to Zen often through their golden thread and their mindlink, travelling to the Zen Garden through the Æther where she continued to sort and puzzle in Zen’s patient presence. But she yearned for their connection in their Person and wanted to go back. Although Kage’s attempt was to keep them safe, she was not a pet, and her purpose there was not to be kept. She would nest in this box, but would leave the lid open.

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Store Houses
Where Are the Gardens? Camaria wondered as she made her way through the noisy streets of Slumber City. Sure there were a few scraggly potted flowers here and there and the odd tomato plant on the balconies of The Compartment Units, but Camaria found that one could walk many a mile without touching grass. And she very much craved the fresh gusts of air and the whispers of the trees.
Kage said that Uncle Hector’s information was old, that instead of small garden plots where the citizens grew what they could and fended for themselves, now there were houses for the storage of the food The Empire grew in their dingy, fluorescent greenhouses and controlled through their distribution. The Empire claimed that the growing conditions were nearing impossible in the Realm, which was true for the cities due to The Haze, but Kage said they could grow gardens, crops even, in the country, that he had seen it himself, and that The Empire's true intention was not to distribute the food but to control the people.
Perhaps, Camaria thought, they would be something like the storage houses back home, where the people stored the surplus of what they grew and gathered which was then made available for celebrations or dances or to supply the daily meals at the Breakfast Houses. But they were nothing of the sort.
Each day the people waited in long lines to be granted entry, given a few minutes to select what they needed and sometimes wanted, some not even receiving anything if the stores were low and they were unfortunate enough to be at the end of the line. Even if Camaria wanted to grow her own food, she could not find anywhere to acquire the seeds. What did Kage call this? Yes, a food desert.
Kage had given Camaria some tokens to acquire supplies for now, that is until she got Papers and was allotted her own rations. Kage had no want for food as his status granted him access to the diners and taverns and the regular delivery of the supplies that filled his cupboards.
As for Camaria, as far as the Realm was concerned she didn’t exist, which was fine with Kage, Camaria being safer that way. Their Bond was a secret, Kage was still living part time in The Highrise still untangling ties with his former life. What to do about papers and rations and tokens which Kage had but were limited in supply? They hadn’t figured that part out yet.
When she reached The Store House, Camaria got in line behind a pair of roughhousing teenagers, likely siblings given the way their auras combinesced, the way they played like bear cubs. Today was a religious holiday for The Believers who were fasting, so the line was rather short, and the only people between Camaria and the doors were the brothers poking, shoving, yelping, and noogying.
When she approached the two Enforcers who sat at a table checking papers and collecting tokens before the great, wide open doors, before either of them could demand her papers, Camaria produced the tokens Kage had given her, the word “gift” clearly etched into their dull alloy surface. There were no Papers required from those redeeming gifts from The Organization, Kage had explained, and The Enforcers were given strict instructions not to ask any questions when they came.
“Lucky lady,” was all one of The Enforcers said and waved her in on the heels of the wrestling cubs who disappeared in different directions as soon as they were permitted. The boys had instantly sobered, intent on getting in and out with what their family needed before their time ran out.
“You can have an extra 10 minutes,” the second Enforcer called to Camaria as she entered the building, surely intending to suck up to whomever had given her the tokens, not knowing who it was but trying his luck that it might be someone important.
This is the food they eat? Camaria wondered when she scanned what lined the 5 shelves of provisions in the otherwise empty warehouse space. The vibration of the rations was exceedingly low, some of it unripe, some of it already rotting, much of it rotting before it was ripe. She did find a nice loaf of bread and a few decent oranges, so Camaria settled on those items and presented them to the Enforcers.
“Is that all you want?” the first Enforcer asked. “You can get a lot more with those tokens.”
“I am sure,” Camaria confirmed, the side of her attention grabbed by one of the boys who was completing his selections. “Can you give whatever is left of my tokens to those boys, please? And my extra 10 minutes?” Camaria asked.
“I suppose it wouldn’t be a problem,” the suck-up Enforcer answered.
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Bright Spots
Cold Mountain was still and bright. The afternoon sun carried a slight and distant warmth to Kilo’s cheeks. The wind slowed to a breeze that picked up in fits and starts, only strong enough to intermittently lift the wisp of Kilo’s dark gold bangs that poked from beneath his lined snow hat. The Snow Leopard made no sound as she approached him where he sat atop a tangle of fallen logs—a suspended space just right for contemplation. She decided to alert him to her presence and made a slight crunching of the snow beneath her great white paw.

She startled him at first, but Kilo soon settled as he realised who it was. Amara approached and allowed her shape to shift from. Unlike much of the lore that was whispered throughout the realms, it was a very simple, pain-free process that took place fluidly, with grace. In one instant Amara was a thick-furred wildcat, the next she was a naked human woman. Kilo quickly stood and covered her with his outer cloak which Amara accepted with a thank you as they moved to sit together on the snowy logs.

“AuntieAmara,” Kilo breathed, forever awe-struck by the beauty and grace of the shifting. Always as if it were the first time he had witnessed her divine transformations. Her thick fur made way for delicate human skin and a head of thick black, copper, and soft white hair that cascaded down her back. She looked at him with the golden eyes of a majestic cat, deeply set and glowing inside the dark rims of her lashes. Those she never changed.

Their conversation was slow and paced.

“Kilo, Nephew. Welcome back to the Mountain.”

“Thank you, AuntieAmara.”

“Your mother, Yara, is she well?”

“Yes, quite well, thank you.”

“And Anahata and Kalea, their Camaria?”

“They are well. Camaria has answered the Call of the Envoy. She left only 4 months ago.”

“Ah, yes,” Amara said slowly, “I see now why you have come to the Mountain, then.”

“Why is that, Auntie?” But Amara didn’t answer.

“Will you go sit in the presence of your father while you are here?” Amara asked.

“Yes, AuntieAmara,” Kilo answered. “I have come to be with you but also to serve The Ancients for a time. Janus has much to impart upon me, and I believe I am in need of receiving it.”

“Yes, you are not yourself, Kilo. I feel something tight in you.”

“I have lost.”

“Well, may you find what you are seeking here,” she replied, her words more a blessing than a wish.

“Yes, thank you, Auntie.”

Instead of a response, Amara’s form swiftly morphed back into her preferred Snow Leopard shape, and she padded off into the trees in pursuit of whatever was creating the rustle that roused them from their conversation.

Kilo stayed for a few more minutes contemplating Amara’s words as he watched the suspended snow crystals glinting in the brash sunlight:

I see now why you have come to the Mountain.
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Papers
“What? A wildman? You helped a wildman in the streets?” Kage asked Camaria incredulously after she told him what had happened the previous day. Kage had slept at The Highrise needing to catch up on his growing pile of work. He had returned to Camaria as soon as he could after a full day of more work and was dressing in Camaria’s bathroom after a shower and a shave. Even as he was palpably upset with her, Camaria couldn’t keep her eyes from lingering on the serpent tattoo that ran up his bicep and over his muscled shoulder.

“They could have asked for your papers. What would have happened to you then, Camaria?” he continued, uncharacteristically unaware of her attention as he slipped on a black t-shirt.

“But they did not,” Camaria answered plainly, her thoughts snapping back to the gravity of their conversation, to Kage’s intense expression.

“I told you not to draw attention to yourself, not until we have arrangements for you. Not until we have Papers.”

“Am I supposed to just disappear, Kage?” It was a simple question.

“Yes! You are!” Kage exclaimed, dark brows rising with emphasis, then furrowing. “You don’t understand, Camaria, you don’t understand this place,” he approached and firmly but gently gripped her narrow shoulders. “It’s not like where you came from. Not at all. We don’t live in your reality. The Establishment, they can make you disappear, for real. That reality you speak of, it doesn’t exist here, it no longer exists for you. Do you understand, Camaria?” And when he saw her expression, his voice softened.

“Camaria, do you understand?” He searched her face, dropped his hand to her belly, his own expression raw with undisguised fear, and something in her ached and yielded.

“I do.”
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The Reals came in wave after wave of snippets, short bursts of fear that rippled from the 90-second video clippings they watched on The Boxes as unstoppable as the rings from a pebble thrown into the ocean. The news came in incomplete flashes, without any kind of context—no story or explanation except what The Citizens could conclude with the partial information that glitched as they anxiously adjusted the rabbit ears to receive better reception. The lasting images, the emotions they evoked, the subsequent beliefs: they anchored, burned into their minds, their hearts, their psyches, as deep and as permanent as a brand from a hot and merciless iron.

There were no reporters as the profession had become obsolete, some say even snuffed out, only video footage uploaded from various sources by The Establishment to The Servers. Some of The Citizens had recording devices, relics from The Age of Technology, and uploaded some of their own recordings to The Servers, but in the end, what showed up on their feeds was curated by The Algorithm. Therefore, in essence, what was reflected on The Boxes was their own fear, and only their fear; anything else—hope, joy, possibility—was filtered, deleted, discarded, fed into the fire for the branding, a what-if of something they were forever promised but could never have.

The family—mother and father, their three children, and their young uncle who was staying on their couch until his platoon set out—sat in their living room and watched the devastation unfold before them.

Their Skinner’s Box lurched to life with a crudely patched together story, a macabre Frankenstein's Monster, stitches and skin flaps exposed yet ignored…

The Box glitched…

The ground quaked, splitting the landscape from the ____ Mountains in the North, ripped along the Fault Line 30 miles into The Wastes, the gaping maw of TerraEarth swallowing what was once Sin City in its path. The devastation was immense: 1000s crushed, buried, or devoured in the first few minutes, more found dead each day than alive as bodies and injured were frantically excavated, dirty fingers clawing the ground to reach loved ones buried in the rubble graveyard…

The Box glitched again…

Pointing the recording device toward herself, a panicked Citizen declared: “the war has come to the borders of Slumber City! ” Behind her are the Barracks on the outskirts of Slumber City where troops move in and out of the building performing various tasks of preparation. “Oh my god, they are coming! What are we to do? They are coming!” she pleaded into the camera, eyes and hair wild, the wind blowing dust into her watering eyes. The Real ended abruptly when one of The Empire’s soldiers shoved her and told her to move on…

Another glitch…

A disembodied, unemotional male voice boomed through the speakers as more images of the quakes and the frenzy of the army’s mobilisation flashed across the screen: “This is a word from The Empire. Prepare for the shock waves and winds that will follow the quakes: board up your windows, stay indoors. The shock waves will not level our buildings, but we will continue to feel them for the next 72 hours. The Empire’s Army is preparing for the invasion. We will hold our borders. If you have been drafted, report immediately. It is your duty to protect the city. We repeat, if you have been drafted, report immediately. The Empire has declared a State of Emergency…

The final glitch of the broadcast…

Instead of hiding in their dwellings, hundreds of people riot in the streets of Slumber City looting Provision Storage Houses, beating each other with fists, pipes, and handmade weapons, vandalising buildings, wagons, and the occasional vehicle that only the most privileged are able to procure. The Enforcers blot the streets like black ink in their full riot gear and masks, batons and tasers subduing the panicked, the angry, the frenzied people. A woman drops the bag of rice she was running with, turtles, and covers her head from an Enforcer’s blows, a toddler in soiled pants cries alone in the streets, a bleeding homeless man is beaten away from the doors of The Hospital.

The family was transported into the images, the anguish, the suffering that wrenched the faces of the people in the Reals; their heart rates galloped, their breath quickened, as if they also dodged the blows, fought for their lives in the streets of the city, cradled their dead babies. The trauma was theirs as well, as if also there in the flesh. So, the mother hugged her children, the father checked the locks, the children cried in fear, the uncle’s anger propelled him to the Killing Fields where he could confront the enemy.

Then The Box went black.

Ironically, the Reals left them reeling with the unreal.

In Sirius, M’s eyes flickered under his closed lids. He witnessed GaiaSophia crack open for the recycling, The Elementals dusting and sweeping the landscape, the rains quenching The Biosphere, the Portals and the Gates open wide to allow for the mass migration of Souls. And it was All Right.

In the living room of The Apartment, Camaria remembered her mother’s words: chaos precedes wholeness, entropy precedes syntropy, destruction is part of construction; both are necessary for Creation. Intend. Participate. Let go. Grieve. Re-Member. Love.

Camaria took out her brushes and painted both sides of this coin—the Real World devastation and the Cosmic Perspective. When she was finished she stepped back and watched as the two-faced painting spun, blurring, blending the pain and the beauty until they were one.

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The Great Flyers
The hike to the Upper Plateau was a bit of a challenge, especially since Kai had already worked up a sweat having been invited to partake in the first movements of the training. Furkan knew that Kai was well enough to have a taste, and Kai could not refuse, excited to have been included in such an experience.
They went easy on him, of course, yet he still got “whooped” as one of the western trainees declared after Enzo served him a strong but merciful blow to the back of his knee that brought him down. The boy was like a grasshopper, a bird, an asp…Kai couldn’t decide which for when he settled on one, Enzo shifted his technique and surprised him.
And the pain of getting “whooped”...it was the best kind of pain, as Kai hadn’t felt so physically alive in his Human form in quite a long (some) time. He could learn a great deal from the people of this place and could see himself staying had it not been for the sweet tether of ribbons calling him to Cold Mountain, his family, his Lila. He would fly Home first thing in the morning; perhaps he would return to The Roost when Lila was old enough to travel such a distance and to such an altitude. He would ready her, yes, he would prepare her, he decided.
His thoughts returning to his body, Kai rubbed his behind with a slight wince as he sat down on the stone bench that overlooked the entire settlement. As soon as he sat and looked around, he understood why Lyra had chosen this place. The panorama was so much more than spectacular; it was the door and the windows without any walls if that made any sense at all.
Only yesterday he had contemplated someday visiting, and today he was literally on top of the entire world. He’d simply had to die to get there.
As Kai watched the training continue below, his thoughts turned to his daughter, how he joyfully and eagerly anticipated their reunion; about Lyra and Furkan’s children, their embodiment and full expression with the mindfulness of little sages. And he wondered without expectation about what little Lila would become and was becoming.
It was during the warmth of this reverie that he saw the Great Hawk rise above the crest opposite to where he sat, blocking the sun with its form for long moments, coming toward him over the expanse of the settlement below. Once his eyes adjusted, Kai could make out Lyra atop its copper-feathered back. Her red curtain of hair billowed back from her creamy freckled skin with the wind and the motion, held down only by the straps of rust brown flying goggles she wore for the protection of her alchemical eyes.
It seemed that time stretched and yawned, yet spanned only a few flaps of the great bird’s wings before bird and rider landed with a great whoosh only a few feet from a very still and enchanted Kai.
“Kai,” Lyra greeted, “this is my great Friend _____,” she said as she dismounted, removed her goggles and gloves, and gestured to the hawk. “____, this is our new Friend Kai,” to which the great beast blinked and tilted her head, once, twice, taking him in. Kai understood the Language of Birds and instinctually did the same.
Lyra had changed into thicker tight-fitted flying clothes for the ride. Her face was pink, her expression and the energy she exuded invigorated, fresh, expansive, as she delighted in her Friends’ exchange. Kia could not help but be elevated by the energy of bird and passenger, as well, as new energy flooded/filled/recharged his deliciously bruised body.
“I thought you might like to meet her and she you,” Lyra declared.
“It is a great honour, ____, to be meeting you,” Kai said, “a great honour,” to which ____ blinked and settled herself into an erect seated position.
“Come, let us sit,” Lyra offered, and they sat on the stone bench together to overlook the settlement. Kai had not noticed that at some point he’d stood up.
____’s presence was immense, yet not overwhelming, and she waited, observing their environment with timeless patience, while Kai and Lyra spoke.
“Furkan said you were one of The 7?” Kai inquired/blurted, though in a flicker of retrospection thought he could have begun the conversation a bit slower, a little less with the compulsion of an inquisitive child.
“Yes,” Lyra simply said, not surprised nor offended, likely because she was used to the sincere curiosity of children.
“Would you like to hear the story?” Lyra asked him.
“Yes, please. Would that be ok?” Kai asked.
“Yes, it is a difficult story, but I tell it for the healing—of myself and that of others. I tell it so we can create something less painful in the lives we live out.”
So Lyra told him all of it: from the beginning, from the middle, from the end, which was really another beginning, or forever in the middle, so much like his own story was.
When she was finished the telling, no words were adequate though the compassion in Kai’s silence was felt, so they remained so for a few moments before Lyra went on.
“I had great Love and great loss in the West, pain I had not felt before and have not felt since. But I do not regret going, I do not regret loving; in fact, I came back Home intending to Love even more,” she said as she looked at Kai then back down to the Training Courtyard. “My experiences in Salem did not clamp me down, it did not chew me up like the machinery of that place, it did not make me hard or cold as metal, but blew my heart wide open. It made me a Warrior of the Heart (of Love). So, I remember them, all of my Loves, and my Heart blooms/warms/heals because of each and every one I carry inside of it.”
“And Furkan?” Kai asked when he followed Lyra’s gaze to where the man was rolling up mats and putting away sticks with Enzo, Valencia, and the lingering students.
“Let me tell you a story,” Lyra began as an answer. “There once was a man, and that man’s name was Furkan,” she said, a bit of lightness lifting her tone. Kai leaned back and to the side a bit to watch her face as she spoke, not able to resist being drawn into the tale.
“He was born in The Valley of Sunshine, in the midst of the paradoxically named Freedom War—since of course, there is no such thing as Freedom in any war—which was raging full force at the time of his birth. The place has since yielded/surrendered/faded into The Bewilderness of the Western Realm, no longer found on maps, the patina of rust and ruin all that is left at the end of the lines where the Voyager’s compass may have pointed.
“He was named Furkan by his Mother, a name carrying great meaning, a gift waiting to be unwrapped by a place that was in great need for such a being. He grew into his name, embodied discernment, keen intelligence, a compass for right and wrong, for clarity and vision, pointing always to the Pole Star, with the wings to fly Home; for his mother did not simply name him but breathed a wish into the world.
“Furkan was a natural born leader, grew quite completely into his name as he became a young man, his authority accepted and sought by the people. And when he was old enough to learn, he was taught how to fly, both of his parents being Aviators of the Old World, manning aeroplanes that once dotted the skies of the Western Realm. He flew with the Freedom Fighters, defending their lands that were just out of The Empire’s reach. Yet as long as they fought, they were still controlled, forced to defend and to fight, to kill or to die, even when they simply wanted to live, to be left in peace to their living.
“The Empire’s agenda had always been clear: they either conquered a people or made them extinct, and though the people of The Valley did not choose extinction, they could not/would not be conquered. So, after decades of resistance, their fuel and resources ran out, The Empire bled them of their reserves, slowly but surely grinding them down—their technology rendered defunct, metal bodies littering The Bewilderness all the way West to the razed city of Stockholm.
“Furkan was a decorated Flyer, with the accolades of bravery pinned across his chest, but to him, each wing on his lapel represented a death, for as the years passed, each battle claimed more lives: of his parents, his only brother, and many many friends. He never married nor had any children there, though he did have a sweetheart when he was quite young who never did see the age of 13. He told me once,” Lyra said, for a moment her voice dropping a decibel as if to confide, “that when they had fought their last battle and were finally grounded, it was the first time they’d been amidst the devastation instead of flying somewhat disconnected above it. Furkan was at a choice point, perhaps one of the most pivotal in all his 40 years. And he chose to follow the glimmer on the horizon that he could not see before the smoke had cleared. He and some of those who had survived passed through the Bardo to the East, and the rest of their community scattered throughout the Realm like DandiThistle seeds in the wind.
“Furkan headed North from where they’d entered the Realm,” Lyra continued after pouring water from her water skin into the dip in a boulder before the great bird who accepted the offering.
“Some headed in other directions, several of the families with young children settled together on the Southern shore. Two companions remained at Furkan’s side, Takeo and Falcon, both young men about 20 years his junior, and together they journeyed to the Midlands where Veil’s Edge is nestled. The three of them settled there for a time, trained and explored their new purpose having been Gifted something all of them had dreamed of, fought for, though never really believed could be a Reality: choice.
“Furkan was exceptionally skilled in the Physical Arts, and it was only after a few weeks training at the Preparation Yard that it became apparent to The Acharia and The Council of Elders that he was indeed a Teacher and no longer a Student. So he quite naturally dovetailed into his new role and had been there 5 years before we 7 entered those halls.
“And the two of you?” Kai asked, the curious child taking over again.
“Oh, I was in love with him before I even left for the Western Realm. I was never his trainee, not really. He was my Mate, my Partner, my Beloved from the moment we met in the Training Yard in Veil’s Edge. He was young for an Acharia, only 45, but well suited for the task. And he was never easy on me though he loved me, probably because he loved me…though it was easy to take the bumps and the play of our sparring…always laughing after an intense session, checking each other over for bruising,” Lyra smiled, then her expression turned serious once more. “I would not have survived the pain of the West nor embodied the Love I found there had it not been for his teaching.”
“When I returned,” Lyra continued, “we decided to come back to my Home here at The Roost. We settled with a new purpose, to birth and raise our family here. AAnd at the very first conception, three Souls nested in my womb, as you know!”
“There is life everywhere, and Freedom, Kai, even death is Freedom. The Ancients even say that we will not transition until we choose to, even the young ones. Our Soul outgrows its body and must fly. At some level we choose and then enter somewhere else, as someone else,” she finished, her face a mixture of sadness, joy, and determination. “We are eternal.”
“I keep them here,” Lyra went on after a wingsbeat, “in the Eternal Flame of my Heart, the ones no longer here in the flesh and in the bone.”
Together they sat in silence for some time taking in the settlement below as the people slowed down for the evening and the Sun cooled and spilled orange across the horizon. From the plateau, they watched The Great Hawks returning to their nests to feed their young, to land and to rest. They could see for miles and miles and miles, places so far they should not have been able to see them with the naked Human eye. They saw the entire expanse of the settlement, over mountain ranges…Kai could make out The Tower, and he swore he saw the tiny buildings that made up his Home on Cold Mountain.
This place, Kai marvelled, is indeed where the Earth meets the Sky.
“Do you want to fly?” Lyra asked Kai, “On the back of a Great Hawk?” she clarified as ___rousted herself from her seat, unfurling and stretching, readying for the flight. “Do you want to See from the Hawk Eye View?”
“Yes, I do,” Kai answered, getting to his feet, so beyond the feeling of readiness.
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Life Tracings and Footprints
When Django emerged from around the great tree, Kilo was sitting, in contemplation, on a rock veined with glinting gold, and Kai was lying on his back in a dry patch where new blades of green were pushing through the dead grass of last year.
Django could now more clearly see the crisscross of many Footprints in the grasses, both the worn and gently trodden paths, the patterns of their comings and goings. He could smell their current whereabouts and even their whenabouts. SoulTracker, his GrandDad had said, the term starting to make Sense to him.
Grounded, Kai could see even more of the sky, the expanse, what was coming and what had gone. The irony of that fact—a view of the sky from the ground—amused him so much that he had to laugh out loud at the thought of it.
Kilo’s sight was different, layered, his ability to see the One and also the Everything, moving in and out, working like a muscle the zooming in, the panning out.
They intoned to each other but said nothing, sharing each other’s experience through their new-tuned and heightened senses. Strangely Django felt like crying, Kai like landing, Kilo like he was already taking flight.
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One Day
As night became dawn, their intoxication came more from the alcohol they’d found in Kage’s office than The Red Bullet—a welcome dilution, a dulling of the inflammation—but even that supply dried up. At first they wanted more of the pills as the high wore off and the swelling in their brains came down, not so they could return to madness but to block what was to come with the clarity. But eventually, inevitably, the colour slowly returned to their eyes—Rocket’s soft blue, MayDay’s chocolate brown, City Boy’s twinkling green, Berserker's gold-rimmed hazel…Ghost’s stayed White—and so, the memories started to seep into the empty spaces.
Camaria and Kage heard the muted sounds of male voices, water running, smelled cooking aromas—such common movements of morning. When their daughters were beyond ready for the day, curiosity piqued, no longer willing to be contained, when their parents felt safe to do so, Camaria and Kage came down the front stairs, little ones in tow. One would have thought they’d had a houseful of pleasant invited guests.
Ghost and the commander were sitting on the couch in the living room talking intently but without too much volume while Berserker, still quite bewildered, agitated, walked around the room taking in Camaria’s many paintings. MayDay was outside looking around, stretching his legs, getting some air, taking in the sun. He dropped a few times to do 20, though no one knew where he found the strength to do push ups after what they’d been through.
Camaria was grateful that Berserker didn’t notice the painting she’d rendered the night before, having the wherewithal to lay it flat on top of one of the cabinets before they’d intercepted the men in the kitchen. It would have been much too painful for them to face at this delicate stage, a trigger tripping the potential land of mines that was blessedly quiet this morning.
The commander watched Berserker out of the corner of his eye, yet he and Ghost stood to fully face and address the family.
“Good morning,” Camaria greeted simply.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the commander replied with a curt nod of his head first to Camaria, then to Kage who he addressed as “Sir.”
“Come to leash your wild dogs?” Kage shot out. Ghost winced.
“Yes, you could say that,” the commander replied with a flicker of regret, taking the hit, but standing, hard, unflinching.
“Thank you for your hospitality, although I understand it was not so much a choice,” the commander added in a voice full of gravel, offering his large, rough hand to shake. Camaria accepted. Kage did not.
“It was a choice,” Camaria countered without conflict as they ended their brief physical connection. “I am called Camaria.” Kage wanted to shoot her a look but stood by.
“Oberon,” the commander offered, a light tingling lingering from Camaria’s touch.
“And these are our daughters,” Camaria said, “Molina, Indigo, and Cressida.” Molina poked her hand out from between her parents where she stood with her sisters, the first hand Ghost shook before exchanging shakes with her mother.
“Ghost,” was all he said, bending to take Molina’s small hand, smiling at all three of the children. Kage restrained himself, deciding to trust Camaria’s instincts over his own. While Molina and Indigo inspected the white man, hair and eyelashes the colour of snowflakes, of delicate webs, Cressida beamed with a smile of her own, all cheeks and sparkling black eyes that reflected Ghost’s image back to him.
“She does not say much,” Molina explained. “She is only two.”
“And how old are you?” Ghost asked.
“Seven.”
“And you?” he asked, addressing Indigo who hid behind her mother’s legs, not yet ready to answer, though many words pressed and bubbled. Ghost guessed she was somewhere around five.
“Can we speak? Later?” Oberon asked the couple.
“Yes, that would be wise,” Camaria answered; then all were startled by a clang in the kitchen as a pot lid clattered to the floor, followed by a bit of cursing.
“Glad you’re so comfortable in our home,” Kage said, voice cool, disguising the heat that was rising under his collar. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get the girls something to eat.”
“I understand,” Oberon said, stepping aside to let them pass. “The men need something to do,” as if in explanation. “A way to contribute. I assure you that you will never again see what you saw last night. Those were not these men.” And Kage knew the truth of that, reassessed where his anger should lie.
Before they moved on to the kitchen, Kage paused, offered his hand to Oberon who took it, then to Ghost who did the same.
“Kage,” Kage said, expression still cool, but hostility beginning to uncoil in small, careful (cautious), reticent degrees.
“Shadow,” Berserker said under his breath from the side of the room, almost involuntarily, commenting on the name without taking his eyes off of the painting he was looking at.
“What’s that?” Kage asked him, not quite trusting what he thought he’d heard.
“He’s a bit of a wordsmith; bookish you might say,” Ghost explained. “Words, names, and meaning intrigue him.”
“I can’t say it’s nice to meet you,” Kage continued, redirecting his attention back to Ghost, then to Oberon, “but I can offer my name.”
—------------
Rocket and City Boy were in the kitchen drinking coffee and busying themselves. The back door was already repaired, and Rocket squatted with some tools he must have found in the shed doing what he could to fix the chairs. He was washed and comfortable in some of Kage’s grey sweats, his cobalt bandanna cleaned, dried overnight, and re-tied across his tanned forehead. City Boy, whose impeccable manners and enchanting charm had returned, was particularly tidy, clean shaven, short dirty-blonde hair neatly combed to his lovely head. Lithe and muscled, he fit perfectly into Kage’s black tee shirt and pants. He was cooking eggs he’d found in the coops out back.
They could have been Camaria’s brothers had she had any.
“I hope you don’t mind,” City Boy said a bit sheepishly as the family entered.
“We told you you could help yourselves,” Camaria said. Neither man knew what to say, so Rocket continued to work on the chair and City Boy plated some of the eggs.
“These are for you,” he offered Camaria, who accepted the plate with a thank you. Eying Kage briefly and deciding it best not to poke the nest, City Boy offered some of his creations to the children instead. After checking in with their parents through intonations, Cressida and Indigo accepted with nods. Molina declined saying she would get her own apple from the bowl on the table, thank you.
After a few minutes, having finished his conversation with Ghost and feeling that Berserker was well enough to leave alone with the white soldier, Oberon followed the family into the kitchen where they were seated now, eating, as Rocket continued to make repairs and City Boy leaned on the counter sipping coffee unwittingly from Camaria’s favourite mug.
Oberon’s face was granite, but inside, as he took a moment to watch the family alive and well at the table, his soldiers back to themselves, he was overwhelmed with gratitude that he hadn’t come upon a very different scene the night before.
When the Red Bullet was dispensed to the Commanders and Generals one week earlier, there was already a buzz moving through the barracks and mess halls created by “leaks” of information. Their orders were to disperse the drug to their soldiers before each battle, told that the pills would enhance the soldiers’ fighting capacity, clear their minds, reduce their fear, increase their tolerance for pain, quicken their reflexes, heighten their senses, improve their healing time—the drug would make them faster, stronger, more determined to conquer—it would give them a colossal edge over the other factions, perhaps even finally crushing them altogether.
But Oberon could hear the unsaid words, the reality of the inevitable fallout: the alteration washing them clean of restraint, giving them strength and ability greater than any human’s capacity to handle it, delusional and dangerous, thinking themselves gods without consequence, without the structure a chain of command provides; the chain of command within the army, within the Self. Somehow this prospect slapped Oberon with epiphany, an understanding he had never even considered in his 30 years of service to The Empire.
What was he really serving? he found himself thinking, the notion interrupting, rattling his previously rigid beliefs about honour and discipline, confused as to where the thought originated.
Oberon believed that even in the games of battle, there must be limits where the consequences of losing were pain, loss, and often death. The choice to play was a burden born without complaint or breaking/crumbling/cracking under the weight of it. All good leaders understood this. Oberon had always trusted his superiors to decide next strategic steps; though they were sometimes counter to what he would have chosen, he believed The Empire had the knowledge, the authority to make decisions that would affect the lives of all in the realm. Order had to be maintained.
Oberon had moved up the ranks not through nepotism or favouritism but by honing his strength, by action, by taking out dozens of the enemy in every battle, a swath of red cut down in his path. He was well respected though he had few friends and had no family to speak of except his father who relied on his own meager veteran rations now that his injuries and age shelved him from service. He’d learned everything from his father: his commanding demeanor; his controlled yet killer instinct for survival; his aptitude for winning battles; and though he felt a wall of distance between them, Oberon deeply respected the man given that living past 40 in service to The Empire’s Army was a miracle.
Though Oberon learned how to be hard, he never did stop feeling, and he didn’t think any of them really could. He was not cruel, nor did he relish in the destruction of others. He felt every life he took, which amounted to a great many, losing track two decades ago. Though some stuck out in his mind more than others, he could not remember them all. His mother, well, his mother’s death was the first death for which he’d been responsible, her life exchanged for her son’s on the day of his birth. This death he remembered, though it was through the story his father had told him when he was a boy, reminded him of every time he wanted Oberon to make her sacrifice count.
He’d killed, yes, but he was not a killer, he reasoned. This, to him, was the difference between man and monster, the line he would not cross, the line he drew very deeply in the minds of the soldiers under his command.
So, when he was to follow this particular set of orders, a new war began to take place within. It was the first time his own dormant conscience disagreed, the first time doubt in the higher command, who that might be, and to what end niggled at his mind.
“Commander?” came a loud female voice slicing through his reverie. “Commander Oberon,” she repeated, “do you understand your orders?” The Strategic General (what is she called, and do I name her?) barked at him.
“Yes, General,” was all Oberon could say, his loss for further words going unnoticed not being a talkative man in most circumstances anyway. So, Oberon asserted his compliance along with the other generals, commanders, and officers at The Empire’s Army Strategic Meeting, though he was strangely aware that he had no intention of complying as he returned to his quarters that evening where he closed the door to think for a bit.
Along with their orders, they were given pamphlets to distribute to their companies, leaflets that advertised glorious, triumphant soldiers atop hills backdropped by blazing sunrises, sporting the lies, concealing the disaster that was sure to follow the use of the drugs. Scoffing at the ridiculous images, Oberon tucked the propaganda away in his office cabinet, for the whole thing wreaked deception that was obvious to him now—not the deception of the enemy, but the deception of The Empire’s own.
He was not opposed to duplicity in times of war. In fact, it was part of the game; the best at trickery, ambush, and manoeuvring would earn the right to victory; but this particular deception took advantage of, manipulated, his own soldiers. Oberon began to think, to wonder, if this was not the first time. And as soon as the thought landed, he wondered how stupid he’d been not to have seen it until then; the lie that was his whole life, the lie that served as purpose for his very existence. Oberon was not one to simper with regret; so, the realisation did not cripple him but set him into motion.
In war one chose a side. But Oberon started to question what that meant, if The Empire had even created the division of factions themselves, the borders on the maps, the fragments and cracks in families and the minds of his own men, in himself. Because if they could lie about this…so, after his soldiers went AWOL, he finally saw through the smoke that cleared. Once, (and it seemed like a dream now, really) for all those years, he had a side to fight for, a righteous cause, a clear structure leashing the threatening chaos. Until now...the release of The Bullet promised chaos unleashed…and it could not be put back into the chamber.
So, one week after The Red Bullet’s release, after his men went AWOL, after he’d come to fetch them albeit too late to save them from the horrors they would have to face every day for the rest of their lives, as he watched Camaria and Kage and their little family in the kitchen, alive and well, Oberon felt some of his stone soften.
End of chapter coming soon...
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Grounds for Training
The dust in the busy training yard swirled, kicked up by the flexible boots worn by both teacher and student. Sparring was Lyra’s favourite activity, and though each night she hissed from the sting of antiseptics and the occasional stitches, she still smiled, relished in every bruise and scrape she earned through her efforts. It felt good to be alive, to be in her body.
She and Camaria squared off—each woman being young and lithe and similar in build and height, this would be a good match. Having read all of the histories of the Western War with No End many times over, taken by the stories of the PeaceKeeping ancestors of the East, Lyra predicted that where she ended up may require the readiness for anything.
Though Camaria, on the other hand, had no intention of needing her sparring skills and physical fitness for anything other than the natural labours of life, she was a good sport and volunteered to spar with Lyra most times Lyra craved the activity. Most of the rest of the 7 preferred to forego physical combat, so Camaria was receiving a lot of practice and the resulting bruises, herself, which she didn't mind, either.
The rest of the 7 were nearing the end of their day and lined the training yard in various positions of sitting, standing, and leaning. Erris was rhythmically flexing his hand working out a kink that settled in from the hours he and Ashlyn spent shooting targets with bows and arrows. Grace and Angel preferred the less rough but high energy activities so were resting on the ground drinking from their water skins after many push ups, and rope jumping, and racing each other to the top of the climbing wall. Shiraz sat with her legs folded beneath her, her yoga practice the only time anyone would see her in anything but flowing skirts. Kilo had joined to observe, and to walk Camaria home on the way back from his service at The Receiving House.
Furkan backed up from the pair once more after giving each woman the go-ahead, and they were at it again.
“Jeeze, Lyra, not so rough!” Erris exclaimed when Lyra threw Camaria over her leg and onto the ground.
“How is she going to do it and the time comes if she cannot practice here?” Camaria defended, picking herself up off of the ground, not bothering to brush off her clothes that were laced with dust.
“Come, Friend,” Camaria coaxed, “try again, now that I’m ready,” she said, face challenging, Lyra smiling with conspiracy and mischief.
And Lyra came at her, this time Camaria was ready, as promised, and had Lyra sprawling on her back in the dust.
“Oh, that was good, my Friend! So good!” Lyra said from the ground where she lay laughing to the sky.
“Crazy,” Erris commented, and everyone chuckled and smiled, amused with the play and the display.
After Camaria helped Lyra up from the ground and they hugged, clapping each other on their backs producing great clouds of dust, Camaria spotted Kilo and ran up to greet him.
“Kilo!” she exclaimed, stopping just before him, invigorated, rosy-cheeked, filthy from toe to crown. “I do not think I will head home just yet. I think I will take the horse out,” she said, breath slightly accelerated, eyes gleaming as she glanced over Kilo’s shoulder to see Lyra mount her Great Hawk companion on the other side of the yard near the roost and stables.
“Of course,” Kilo said, and grinned after her as she ran to her horse, gently but firmly grasped her mane, mounted her bare back, and set out to the open field to catch up to her friend who was already riding the skies.
“They are wild, those two,” Erris said, appearing beside Kilo as he watched them.
“Indeed they are,” Kilo agreed.
“Are you up for a ride, also?” Erris asked.
“Yes!” Kilo accepted, more emphatic than he’d expected, swept up in the energy of the women.
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The Book That Changes
And The Prophet said:
A day is coming of great loss and of great possibility. Prepare well through the opening of your Minds and the softening of your Hearts, for the Age of Suffering is coming to an end as The Great Awakening catalyses The Great Change, the dawning of a New Humanity.
Birth and death, birth and death, birth and death: the eternal, infinite, essential cycle of creation.
Do not fear death, do not fear this Great Change as it is Humanity’s Destiny to leave the Age of Suffering and enter the Frequency of Love. You will realise your Divinity, you will co-create a world of beauty that has always been incubating in The Dreamscape for you to manifest into The Realised Reality.
On this day, The Precipice, the turning of the Wheel of Creation, of Manifestation, of Involvement and Evolvement, will accelerate, The Great Change will begin, and you will be ready.
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Tea and the Cherry Trees
The next day Camaria and Zen had tea in Zen’s small house at the back of the courtyard. Not even twenty-four hours had passed since their first meeting, and Camaria was back again, having passed under the watchful eyes of the gargoyles, through the grand mahogany door, the hollow gallery, her feet gliding over the smooth pebbles…the cherry boughs beckoned, the clematis granted her passage, the soft grass poked through her freshly bare toes, shoes discarded…and there Zen was, in quite the same place as before, bent over whatever burgeoning tendril wanted her care and attention.

With Kage’s side of the bed empty that morning and inspiration dwindling for her empty canvas, there was nothing keeping her in The Apartment. Even so, Camaria wasn’t sure she would have chosen her brushes or even Kage’s kisses over a visit with her new friend. Her friend.

Zen was quite happy, yes, but didn’t look surprised to see her, and after turning, rising, and stretching, she invited Camaria to follow her to her small house. It was a lovely little place built of wood and stone. A simple catchment system ran along the cottage roof and down into what looked like some kind of filtration system ending in a lidded barrel. Shrubbery and at least a dozen variations of plants and grasses encircled the walls, vines grew up the walls, a lush and thriving vegetable garden spilled its bounty from the south side of the house. It was simple and perfect. Just as anything would be with careful tending.

Inside there were two small bedrooms side by side in the back. The front of the house was a one room living area with a kitchen to the left and a table and chairs under the small window on the north side of the house. There were no armchairs nor a couch for leisure or long visits, only an arrangement of mats and cushions carefully placed around a low wooden table.

Zen quietly lit the stove, boiled the water, and set out the tea service. Once the water was ready, she poured it over the leaves in the ivory teapot and set it back on the table. Camaria watched from her chair in silence, the weight of the ritual not heavy but filling her heart—not measured by gravity but by volume. She wondered if Zen ever left this place, doubting so, and not sure she wanted to leave either now that she was here. But she felt the thread she shared with Kage would inevitably draw her back out into the city’s convoluted Reality.

It was then that Zen sat down and poured the steaming tea into the delicate china she set before them. They settled in to speak, hands encircling their steaming cups.

“I have not left this place in 10 years,” Zen confided, as if reading Camaria’s mind. “The space within these walls is my Sanctuary, removed from the harshness of the world. I am a wounded coward.” Camaria did not speak just yet, only encouraged Zen to continue with her presence, her patience.

“I also tend and hold this space for others who need some Time. There is a use for me here, and I am most happy to serve.” Camaria sensed both the truth and also the withholding in Zen’s verbal confessions. But her mind, her heart, Zen laid them open willingly as it was apparent to both that their friendship was as old as their Souls, that it did not start in this lifetime nor in this engagement over tea—the roots of their ancient golden thread already deep and in-form.

Still, Camaria did not push, she did not pry into the history of this lifetime, she did not peer into Zen’s memories to satiate her curiosity or come to her own conclusions. She simply felt, witnessed, and responded when Zen’s tone or gesture asked for such.

“Readiness exists outside of Time and should not be measured by it. The Time will come when you are ready, I would think.”

“Yes. This I know, but yet I wonder when that will be all the same. Time does not escape me, although I try to let it go.”

Interest setting her mouth to ask, Camaria sipped her tea and inquired: “Who came before you, here, in this place? Who built this house? Who planted the trees that are surely much older than 10 years?”

“There was a predecessor who received me when I arrived, lost and tormented, on the doorstep beneath the watch of the very gargoyles you likely noticed upon the roof. A bent old man bearing the name Benji who was utterly mute, his tongue having been carved out by thieving mercenaries when he was just a boy. He had seen something he was not supposed to see, so without a tongue and instilled with the terror of their retribution, his mutilation ensured that he would not speak a word of it.”

Zen paused to blow and sip her tea.

“The Zen was a walled garden that stood alone on the outskirts of a growing settlement. Benji had inherited it with the house and the trees when only 19 after the world had beaten, and abandoned, then thrown him away. The Zen space was gifted to him by a kind, wealthy merchant who took pity on him before embarking on a doomed voyage into the angry waters of The Black Unknown. The merchant promised to visit soon, handed the Ownership Papers to Benji, and set off to board the Better World.

“When Benji entered The Zen, the first place in his entire young life where he enjoyed the sigh of safety, his body began to speak in gesture and expression what had not been previously spoken, unable to contain the Truths he had begun to come to in his silence.”

Another pause, another sip.

“Benji’s was the time before motor vehicles and radios, so it was at the dawn of The Age of Technology that he retreated into The Zen not wanting anything to do with wires, Boxes, and machines. Decades later when I crawled up the steps and into his life, The Zen was already surrounded by the city which rose up around his Sanctuary, and Benji was a bent and ancient man.

“From Benji, I learned to intone, to gesture, without spoken words. And when he slipped into death, The Zen also became still, Benji’s busily gesturing hands laying speechless at his sides, his animated expressions as smooth as the glasslike pebbles on the paths. It was then I learned true Silence, alone with only a chest of papers to keep me company.” Zen paused to take another sip, and Camaria followed suit.

“It seems I am not quite so silent today,” Zen said with a warm yet slightly melancholy smile and took a pause to fill both of their cups once more.

“Please Zen, do go on. There are times to be silent, and times when we need to speak.” Zen’s smile lost its melancholy, but the warmth stayed, her emoting shifting to gratitude.

“I was not the first to find solace here with Benji,” Zen went on, “for he showed me writings and drawings of those who came and went—his friends, his students, even a wife who bore him a child—but I was, indeed, the last.” At that she rose to open the chest behind her which was full of papers of various sizes and colours.

“You are welcome to read through them at your leisure, any time you wish, Camaria. Some may hold the Wisdom you seek. Some may give you comfort. Some may raise more questions. Yet all will serve as friends. I hear them, their voices, through the inking made by their hands.”

“Thank you, Zen, for the sharing of this treasure,” Camaria said with sincerity and a bow of her head, then after an appropriate pause, she rose. “Come, Zen. Come outside with me.”

Outside in the centre of the courtyard in the dappled sunlight beneath the boughs, Camaria placed her hands on the trunk of one of the trees and invited Zen to do the same.

“The memories are also held in the rings of the trees, a recording of those who have come before. We have Memory Trees at home, but every tree is a Memory Tree. I planted one myself before I left. Listen.” Zen closed her eyes and drifted into wonderment as she felt something she hadn’t before, the presence there. She marvelled at how there was more she had yet to learn about Silence.

“I do have a practical question if you do not mind me asking,” Camaria ventured.

“Yes, ask,” Zen answered and nodded as they both sat in the grass at the base of the tree.

“How are you sustained if you do not leave? The rain waters your garden, the plants produce the seeds and the fruit, but there are other things you need. Tools, building supplies, things you cannot or do not grow here.”

“Ah, yes, that is even a mystery to me!” she answered. “Throughout the years, there was a series of people both young and old who would trade with Benji. Benji would offer them the extra yield from the garden, and they were always welcome to spend a Time in the Garden, and they would return with supplies or whatever Benji might have needed. It was a very nice arrangement for many decades, but once the Towers went up during The Age of Technology and The Boxes were installed into the homes and hands of the people, Benji’s friends became fewer as they became distracted with other things. They became Citizens with their very own Papers to prove it.”

“It was at the height of The Blackouts and The Empire’s invasion that I opted out of the world and showed up on these steps. I burned my own Papers and scattered the ashes amongst the cherry trees to be absorbed and recycled. Then I began to write my own.

“Not a week after my arrival, we felt a beconing at the front door and opened it to a full basket and an empty street. From that day on, I have not gone without.” With the story complete, the women turned their attention to the falling pink petals, the petals that seemed to forever be filling the air of the garden with their bodies and their scent.

“So commanding of your attention, are they not, despite their delicacy?” Zen asked, “their sweet perfume inviting you in.”

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Colourful Notes
“I am running out of paint,” Camaria told Zen as they hung Camaria’s most recent painting on the wall. Camaria’s hand floated absentmindedly to rest on her bulging belly. Her daughter somersaulted in response. “I brought as much as I could carry, but my supply is getting low.”

“You are painting a lot then,” Zen stated, eyes bright with her smile as she took in the painting, ensuring it was straight.

“Yes, in the country house studio. So many colours to be rendered, so many stories to be told.”

“There is a hermit who supplies such things—some he makes, some he acquires, treasures most people here would not even consider to exist. I do not know where he gets the materials, but some say he is what you call a Straddler who travels back and forth from the East.”

“Where can I find him?” Camaria asked, grimacing slightly from a rather hefty kick from her womb. Delicato, Little One, she intoned in response.

“He lives near the lake, just below the city. Follow Bardo Canyon South and you will find him on the _____ Lake if he is to be found. His cottage is cloaked, hidden to anyone who does not have pure intentions.”

“Like this place?”

“Yes. Like this place. It is protected by Belief, or should I say, lack thereof,” Zen’s smile turned wry, then she recovered herself. “Still, do not let anyone see you go. For his safety. And for yours.”

“I understand,” Camaria replied. “I will set out from here, this very morning, to make the journey shorter.”

“That would be wise, my friend. Do tell me all you see when you get back,” Zen said, excitement lighting up her porcelain moon face.

—-------------

When Camaria exited, set her feet upon the stone steps of The Zen, she also set her course and her intention, and turned in the opposite direction of where she usually headed to go home. She had intoned her intentions to Kage before she left, and after some protests on his part and assurances on hers, he conceded to agree to see her at home for a late supper he would cook for them.

Camaria had never been to the Southern District of the city before, and it was absolutely nothing as she’d expected.

As soon as she’d crossed the sliver of the stinking, filmy river that cut through the tainted metropolis, the patina of the city thinned. It wasn’t a gradual dissolution, or a sloughing off, not even a peeling away of some crusted skin, it was a sudden epiphany, a stroke of insight, the dropping of a drab and heavy cloak.

Somehow the South was lighter, the sun shining brighter, demanding a greater presence through the haze of the Western Matrix.

The people nodded at her in greeting, looked her in the eye, smiled at her as she walked by. Children scampered on the streets, slowing down when they passed The Enforcers who pretended not to notice the children’s play, their parents’ willingness to let them. They looked, well, healthier than those in the Core and the North, allowing for a bit of joy, a vein of contentment, even those In Line at The Provision House seemed well enough to be there.

The buildings were still old, but hinted at architecture, with craftsmanship and complex shapes other than square, other than lines—the structures almost boasted of care and attention, prideful in their construction and maintenance. Flowers bloomed on doorstops, green vines crept up the walls from tiny patio gardens. There was not only living here, but life, some room to express and to breathe.

Camaria looked around in wonderment, and her daughter turned and kicked in agreement.

The people didn’t look affluent by any stretch, dressed in much the same quality of clothing as the districts across the river, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. There were splashes of colour in their garments and in their cheeks, unlike the macabre masks painted on the Tricksters and Tellers over the river. In fact, Camaria could not locate neither by sight, sound, nor frequency any sort of distortion, only a pervasive desire for something more being hushed by the almost imperceptible presence of a thin, grey cloud. Most could not put a firm finger on this presence, but all of them could feel it somewhere deeper within, their spirits singing but not quite fully released.

It did not take long for Camaria to locate the tributary pointing from the source that fed their deep well of being. It was all around her: the creations being born. There were dance performances in the street, small art shops, jewellery displays on random street corners, and at least two theatre houses as far as she could tell. The Southern District was an outpouring of humanity, of passion, of the paradox of acceptance and resistance, and Camaria was overcome with the tides, the winds, the fires of emotion that made her weep as she beyondered through the streets, her feet touching firmly the ground.

But what drew Camaria in was the sound, the mixture of beauty and nostalgia that floated from the open doors of Atticus’ Attic—“a house of musical improv,” the cherry sign also stated.

Camaria stepped through the arched doorway into a pleasantly lit room—somewhat dim, but cosy, with just the right amount of light filtering through the clean windows. The activity of the outside could be witnessed but rarely noticed once one set foot into the place and the jazzy, bluesy, soulful notes gripped you in Love’s embrace, by the core of your very humanity. The music allured, arrested, captivated, disarmed. It wounded then wooed then kissed with one request. It asked one to fall in Love and was gratefully/appreciatively/willingly obliged.

Inside, the man playing the piano looked to be in his forties, and he noticed Camaria the moment she walked in. Without missing even one gorgeous note, he invited her to sit with a warm smile on his thick brown lips and a nod of his head capped with tight black curls. Camaria accepted the man’s invitation and sat at the back of the room to listen. The musician’s eyes were a dark brown-green fringed with thick, long eyelashes, and his expert hands moved up and down the keys that played the songs of memory, of the past, of the reveries of once was with each gentle strike of the piano hammers.

A young pair of teens sat with their chairs on the same side of their table at the front of the room so they could both watch and listen, close and tight, the girl’s head resting on the boy’s shoulder as they listened. Even from the back, Camaria could tell that the boy, who could not have been older than 13, was undeniably the musician’s son, and when his head turned, she saw flashes of the same eyes as his father, the same beautiful lashes. And the girl, hair an explosion of curls tamed only by the pink ribbon she’d tied around her head, was his Beloved. His forever. His only. Even at that tender age. Although there was a smattering of people in the room in various stages of conversation and listening, the older man seemed to be playing solely (soully) for the two of them, but perhaps now for the four of them—the young pair and the mother and unborn child.

There was such an exquisite depth to the silence in the country where Camaria now resided with Kage, but this music, the tones and tunes, sung the richness of the old stories, connecting her in a new way, a way the birds and grasses could not nor were intended to do. At that moment, Camaria realised she had missed this type of music, played through both the crafted and the human instrument, and it re-ignited, resounded, re-opened something deep within her. It was memory, re-membrance, it was joyful sorrow, honest confession, the very beginnings and endpoints of longing and desire.

Atticus told her his story through his playing—of his youth, his own Beloved, the story of their son—he intoned loss and grief, the notes lined with golden threads of joy and hope. Camaria silently cried, she laughed out loud, she smiled through her tears, as she listened and witnessed, as she received the wisdom composed from the notes of Atticus’ history. And then it was time. To go. To carry those stories, the gifts Atticus placed with her, in trust, forever in her heart. Receive them, he offered. Take them, he asked. Both gifting and unloading.

Though far from perfect, the Citizens’ lives were in Slumber City, in those galleries, theatres, music houses, their human experience expressed in play, through a scene, a sculpture, a song. As long as they could survive in the limits of that Matrix, they could also to some extent create.

These people, Camaria understood as she rose from her chair remembering her time today was also limited, these people were beauty itself. Who The Establishment belittled to be mere forgettable entertainment, Camaria called Prophets, Seers, Chroniclers, Artists—their Truth, their impact, hidden (cloaked? concealed? disguised as? veiled?) in cliche.

Where the city Core was warped and distorted, the South was musical. Where the Northern Industrial was polluted and dirty, the air in the Southern Outskirts hinted at the freshness beyond the boundary, and beyond that even further to World’s End.

Before walking back through the door, Camaria tipped her head in thanks to Atticus, and he answered with a big, warm smile. I will see you again, she intoned. I will remember you. And he nodded in response.
\t
Camaria stepped onto the street once again where the world went on, not skipping a beat. Her time in Atticus’ Attic seemed forever yet passed in a blink of the in-between—a timeless, dreamlike reprise.

—--------

About 30 minutes later, Camaria found herself at the South Fringe of the suburb. There was no fence, no gate necessary to pass through that fence—the city simply thinned and spilled out into the countryside and the end of the world beyond, and the boundary was a densely thick line of trees. A few miles apart from each other in a semi-circle that met the river at each end stood 7 simple shack-like posts the officers manned along the boundary. Each post was erected at the lip of each of 7 paths—the only openings through the treeline. Camaria was at Checkpoint 4, the centre point. (insert drawing here)

If Camaria hadn’t felt into the danger of skirting the Checkpoints and escaping through the forest, she would think this place quaint, lovely even. It held a peaceful quality, but if you knew anything about anything, the Universe was Paradox—the dark with the light, the violence with the peace.

Camaria watched a blackbird sing then swoop down from its perch to catch a moth in its beak, she turned her sharp attention to an orange spider weaving its glistening web in the grass, a fly already caught in its deathly sticky (clingy) strings. One could debate which one this place was—cruel or kind—but Camaria understood it to be All Right according to a much bigger picture than even she could paint.

Mis-belief had it that World's End was full of weirdos, wackos, woo woos, and degenerates—the ridiculous, the delusional, the rejects of civilization—Unwashed Hippies, some called them. But Camaria knew that it was the closest this realm had to a Free existence, and that Shiraz was there at this very moment, in her field of wildflowers, no doubt.

One could exit the city without restraint if they were rejected then ejected by The Establishment—having done something not against the law, which warranted incarceration or death, but enough to get them some negative attention. Subsequent Rejection Papers would be issued if behaviour was disruptive or construed as outside of acceptable conduct for a Citizen of Slumber City—or if the Citizen themself applied for such papers, giving up the safety and the shelter of the city.

If they were successful in their expulsion, whether it be by force or by choice, they could never return to the city, taking their chances on owning themselves, and no one knew what lay in wait for them in the wilds at the end of the world. Some freedoms were too uncertain, even for the people skirting (flickering on? playing on?) The Southern Fringe. Though they wanted to express their individuality, their pain, their protest, their beauty, how would their expression be received if they were rejected, unheard, without a witness? So, most of them stayed, some even enjoying some form of fame.

So, the presence of the thick, dark forest of The Fringe limits and the misnomers about the end of the world outside kept most of The Citizens nicely hedged in, passing to and from the Checkpoints, time limited and counting down, counted and accounted for—their fare, their Freedom; their reward, the sweet relief of order.

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The Belly of the Beast
Camaria was unceremoniously forced out into the litter-lined street, a rough shove into the cacophony that was Slumber City, the belly of the beast.

She immediately covered her ears from the screaming siren, the people murmuring as they shuffled and pushed by, the clanking of heels on the pavement, the stench of a mixture of cooking grease and unwashed bodies, the child crying off in the distance. No one noticed the small young woman with a beautiful crown of glossy, shoulder-length curls materialise seemingly out of nowhere. Their eyes were downcast, or skimmed over her, focused on nothing in the present, its owners somewhere within, or elsewhere, or simply just gone.

It was just as her Uncle Hector had said—there was no way to fully prepare her for this.

One set of black eyes did spot her in the street, however, her form still and clear in the centre of the din, the rest of the streetscape blurring around her with motion. She was the centre of it all, he immediately decided, the point of his fixed attention. Kage eyed her as she carefully, reluctantly brought her hands down from her ears, straightened herself, and looked around with eyes with a depth and warmth he had never seen in his 25 years. Oh, she was a beauty.

Still disoriented, Camaria wandered toward the curb, the crosswalk only a suggestion to everyone who beeped and hurried through the streets of the city. Kage saw the sleek black moped before she did, saw her place her foot onto the street, saw her jump at the blaring horn. He was there in an instant, and he meant to catch her.

Kage pulled her back onto the safety of the sidewalk, the moped splashing the hem of her emerald pants, the back of his long black coat he used as a shield. The man on the moped, red necktie tight, yelled, “watch where you’re going, bitch!” as he sped away without another glance.

Camaria, mouth agape, simply stared up at Kage who was holding her tight now, this strange man with the intense, black eyes with a hint of lavender in their depths, that both danced and held still at the same time, sly smile snaking up his beautifully chiselled face as he took in her expression. The smell of him, something like sandalwood and cloves, coiled up her nostrils, igniting a strange and novel sensation in her lower belly—a sensation she had never known before him.

Oh, she was a beauty, indeed, how her mouth parted to let small puffs of sweet air escape through her perfect, white teeth.

Kage broke the spell, or perhaps cast it, and said to her in a voice just louder than a whisper, but somehow deeper, stronger than all the other sounds, “I’ve got you.”

And she believed him.
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On the Tailcoats of Winter
After they’d unpacked and the evening meal was cooked, eaten, and cleared away, the longhouse glowed from the inside with lantern and firelight, the banter of the Uncles and Aunts, the singing of the Cousins. And when they weren’t singing, they shrieked and jumped and guffawed as they played games with cards and polished stone pieces that Simone took the lead to organize. The beauty that shone through Simone’s daisy-heart brown eyes was as comforting and inviting as it was arresting. Daphne, whose thick mocha frame towered over her younger Sisters and Cousins, was by far the loudest, and Sanja, who could have been a younger version of her Mother Jazz with her chocolate skin and shock of wiry black hair, was the most animated, knocking over her chair twice with her small frame in the excitement. Tallulah did not join but enjoyed the play, hugged her sweater closely around her and smiled as she received from the chair that soothed with its rocking.
Elder Mani’s amused and childlike wonderings tinkled both like the Moonlight and the Sunshine. He spoke about his gardens, the animals in his forest of redwoods, the insects he watched from his ground-level kitchen, the planets that spun throughout the night which he observed through his glass ceiling observatory. Whenever he shuffled/relocated/moved to another part of the room, Lionel and Alora were not far behind.
Django, more bronzed like his Father Hector, cinnamon hair in neat rows of braids Simone set close to his scalp, preferred the company of Kilo and Kai, who exchanged quiet words and the occasional laugh, but spent most of their time keenly, but not unlovingly, observing the others from the corner of the room where they had placed a few lounging chairs for evening comfort.
When the din died down, there was a moment of collective pause as everyone settled in closer to the main hearth of The Longhouse greatroom. Some sat in various deep and cushioned armchairs The Ice Man was famous for building, some sat on the floor on cushions, on one of the couches, Lionel and Alora snuggled in on either side of Mani. The couples sat together, Octavia being the only one of them still engaged in activity as she stitched powder blue paper into a new book for Shiraz. Kai left his company to pull a chair close to his Beloved. Yara placed Arcturus in Kilo’s arms and sat beside her boys. Tall and lean Diana rose from where she was sitting amongst the pillows with Shiraz and Godiva to place a few logs into the fire. Shiraz, worn notebook in her lap and pencil in her hair, watched Diana absentmindedly tuck a lock of her loose brown curls behind a pierced ear before sitting down once more.
It was then that Godiva started to sing, a slow and rich tone that came from deep within her full chest and through lips that seemed to have been sculpted by the hands of an angel. She was not one to say much by way of small talk, so when Godiva sang, the people listened.
Demeter was the first to join her from where she sat on the warm stone hearth, firelight illuminating her deep-set, heavy-lidded yellow-hazel eyes, the rest of the house joining one by one until every corner was filled with their music.
“ani kuni chaouani
ani kuni chaouani
a wa wa bikana caina
a wa wa bikana caina
e auni bissini
e auni bissini…”
“What does it mean?” Django asked the room from the bench he sat on along the wall adjacent to the fire, leaning forward, elbows on his thighs.
“The Plains People taught it to GrandDad Mosi long ago when he went to the Eastern Plains to learn the drum and the rattle,” Demeter answered her Cousin, looking to her Mother for confirmation who simply nodded and smiled.
“Mama says that no one really knows the true words, the language is so ancient,” Sanja added, her eyes having followed her Sister’s gaze to land upon Jazz whose patient yet engaged silence encouraged them to go on.
“Father, have pity on me,
Father, have pity on me
I’m thirsty
I’m thirsty
And there is nothing left to eat
And there is nothing left to eat,” Demeter recited.
“That is the translation most people agree on,” she explained.
“That song is sad, but it also makes me feel good. Like I want to go to sleep,” Alora said dreamily from where she’d settled tucked under Mani’s arm, tight brown curls released from her braids.
“Yes, it is, as it is for all such songs of Spirit and Dreams, the lullaby: an acknowledgement. A comfort. A letting go. Preparing for the little death of slumber,” Godiva answered her little Cousin, adjusting her body on the cushion she sat on to hug her knees.
“Are you comfortable there, attached as a sticky bramble under Mani’s arm?” Daphne asked Alora playfully, her Voice more molasses than bassoon now that they were done with their games and shenanigans.
“MmmmHmmmm,” Alora asserted and snuggled in closer to Mani’s bony frame, the top of one of her afro puffs tickling Mani’s chin.
“But the song is wrong,” Lionel offered, who had been listening intently, brow furrowing, “we always have something to eat.”
“Yes, Lionel, we do. For our bellies, and our Hearts,” Godiva agreed.
“I like the second translation,” Sanja said.
“When evening descended upon the village,
When evening descended upon the village,
The Medicine-man disappeared into the forest,
The Medicine-man disappeared into the forest,
Touching the ground with his hands,
Touching the ground with his hands.”
And they sang the song again, all together this time, a few rounds until they all stopped when their Hearts were full.
“That sounds like Mani, the man in the song,” Alora said, though her eyes were already closed, and Mani let out a small giggle and gave her a little squeeze.
“Or maybe Uncle Duke!” Lionel blurted. And just as he said the words, the yipping of a single coyote rang through the night—first stillness then laughter filled the whole of The Longhouse. Even Tallulah laughed into her hand and leaned her head upon her Beloved’s shoulder.
Sleep called them to float away to their rooms or out into the night air to walk back along the path to their respective cabins, to be tucked into their sleeping rolls, the lulls continuing to rock and hold them within the womb on the base of The Mountain.
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Statement","isSystem":false,"createdOnDate":"0001-01-01T00:00:00","entities":{"f021d64e-61f3-4d66-bd94-3138477c028c":{"parentId":null,"childrenIds":["474f71b7-9268-465a-9467-717c123e5cc5"],"type":"Popup","orientation":"vertical","dimensionSize":null,"id":"f021d64e-61f3-4d66-bd94-3138477c028c","settings":{"_desktop":{"name":"Artist Statement","behaviour":"over","overlayBackgroundColor":"rgba(0,0,0,0.6)","position":"center center","pushPosition":"top","hint":"This popup will be triggered on product pages in case expo event isn't selected","showOnThisPage":false,"triggerEvent":"pageLoad","triggerDelay":"3s","triggerFrequency":"1m","closeButton":{"icon":"far fa-times","iconColor":"#000000","iconSize":"20px"},"contentVerticalAlign":"top","padding":"20px","minHeight":"0vh","outerWidth":"800px","background":{"type":"color","color":"#f7f7f7","image":"img/custom/background.jpg","imagePosition":"center 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Artist Statement
For me, being a writer, an artist, a person dedicated to my craft is not a job or vocation but an inspired compulsion to create, whatever it might become, for its own sake, because an idea has taken root and all I can do, all I want to do, is feed and water it, see where it takes me, and prune and shape those tendrils, those beginnings, that I wish to make into “something.”
It is how I see the world and how I live in it, find my place in it, and how I contribute to its creation, viewing simultaneously through the perspectives of the participant, the protagonist, the observer, the witness, the StoryMaker, the StoryTeller, and the StoryWeaver, savouring this life and all the beauty in it through what I call the poet’s bullseye, yessss.
Everything I experience (what I call my substrate, playground, field, materials…) is a deeply enriching opportunity to excavate, explore, capture, celebrate, revere, make sense of, express the stuff of life through my art with the quintessence, the ultimate reason for doing so, being connection—to myself, others, the world at large—the exchange of inspiration, joy, passion, beauty, and understanding—acting as both the witness and the witnessed with lots of room to play. Play being the essential essence!
I have always been a vivid dreamer, increasingly lucid, and most definitely open to the synchronicities, the oracle that is the world. I dream in scenes, wake with snippets of songs or bits of poetry, an event or a person partially formed, in-forming me, begging to be pulled into form, into a story or experience that matters not only to me but to the people I share it with. Each morning in the liminal/ambrosial moments between wake and sleep, I start my day by catching what is waiting to be caught, by noticing/realising what is revealing itself to me—I write it down, voice to text myself, sing it, narrate it into my microphone, then I follow it—because I have to make something, or sometimes nothing of it at all, the nothing (those hundreds of pages of me “just” thinking, feeling my way through) actually being an integral part of the process.
Simply put, I do what I love, and I love what I do. Like really love it. Each piece I create, whether it be polished and published or an unread entry puked into my Existential Brain Dump, my work is a pure expression of my very being.
In a seniors’ class I taught through the extension division at the U of S back in 2008, a quiet student of mine (who’d dedicated her life to raising a family on a rural Saskatchewan farm) said aloud one day that before she started the class, she didn’t know her life mattered. THAT is why I do what I do. Our stories matter. And I want, every day, to tell them.
Anyway, thank you for reading, and most importantly, thank you for playing.
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The Holding Place/The Work of Breath
Kilo and The Ice Man left the settlement without companions and sat for their daily practice on the rocky edge of the Cold Lake.
The Ice Man led their practice today, which was the way Kilo liked it as his Uncle’s voice both settled and entertained him, both anchored his body and set his spirit free. Kilo closed his eyes. The Ice Man began. Kilo followed his Uncle’s prompts, mouth opening for the cycle of receiving and releasing.
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
30 times…
And out…
Fill your belly…
Now your lungs…
Let your chest rise…
Let the breath move all the way up into your head…
Yes like that…
And out…
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
Follow your breath…
Now, fully in.
And stop for a moment.
Let it out…
You do not need to push the breath…
Just let it goooo…
Right to the bottom…
And stop.
Feel the bottom…
And hold…
Kilo could feel his eyes converge beneath his lids once his breath reached his brow, the crown of his head…he could feel the container it filled, every edge and contour of himself as his breath demarcated his very being, allowing him to catch it for long enough to feel it. And when he exhaled, he luxuriated in stillness, the sensations there at the bottom. In stillness there is no need for patience, so Time dissolved, and Kilo was happy to let it go…with the flow…of his breath.
This is not so hard, TimeBending, he heard Janus say. If all you do is breathe.
—-------
After three rounds, Uncle and Nephew rose, stripped down to their underthings, and sank into the water’s depths. There was no longer an icey layer glassing the top of the lake, yet the water remained frigid and would remain so all year long, the heat of summer not long enough to reach into its depths. It was just the way The Ice Man liked it. Clear. Fresh. Goosepimply cold!
“In the extreme cold all your chi goes to your core. Your lifeforce, you know?” The Ice Man explained, coaching Kilo through the first shocks that he always felt in the beginning of each plunge. “Feel it, Kilo, in the depths of your being. Feeeel it!” The Ice Man said with fervour, always with fervour, which made Kilo smile through his shivers. And though at this point he usually surrendered to the cold, sank deeper into it, today Kilo let the energy rise to his lips and released a bellow.
“Ahhhh!” he hollered “Great _____, it is coooold!!!” to which The Ice Man started, then laughed, and immediately joined in.
“Ahhhh!” The Ice Man hollered, “woooo!” and the men laughed and hollered some more.
“Ow, ow, owwww!” Kilo yelped as if a wild winter wolf, then ducked his head under for a moment. He burst up through the surface, golden hair darkened by the wetness, yipping and yelping, splashing his Uncle whose eyes twinkled with mischief as he returned the play.
“This is goood, yes?” The Ice Man said to his Nephew.
“Very good, Uncle. I feel alive!” Kilo exclaimed, smiling wider, pinwheel hazel eyes dancing. “I feel my body, every cell, each and every layer—my skin, my muscles—all in contrast to the warm organs inside of me, my guts as you call them. All of it, and it is glorious!”
“It is glorious!” The Ice Man bellowed. Then he used the rocky edge to push himself up and out of the water, stood for a brief moment dripping from his underthings, from his beard, from his wiry hairy chest, nipples hard from the cold, and cannonballed back into the lake while shouting:
“I! Am! here!”
And Kilo, laughing, letting the water splash him, face turned up to the sky where the form of his Uncle's body had temporarily taken up the view, answered: “I! Am! here!”
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Lifelines
The Barn was alive! And each day she was to expect them, Johanna popped out of bed, fresh and ready, hours before her Friends and the children were to enter through the wide-flung doors. Rather than John leaving Johanna to her quiet coffee at the kitchen table as was previously their pattern for the duration of their young marriage, Johanna left the house first and John to his daily routine.
That morning, as he ate his breakfast, John watched Johanna through the window contemplating her change and his place in it. He felt her renewed happiness in her morning pecks on his lips as she exited the house to fix or clean or clear or tend or prepare, leaving John to see himself out. She had stopped trying to coax him out to The Barn, to adventure with her over the hills further into the country, to places outside of his small zone of comfort.
He was grateful, also, yet in his quiet way, for the women who filled and animated the lonely places within Johanna and The Barn, places that were foreign to him in ways he could not quite sort into his predrawn maps through the labyrinth of psychology. Johanna scribbled all over those maps, and he could never quite get his bearings with her. And to any attempt to draw Johanna into his assessments of their arrangement, Johanna would say something to the effect of: “Fuck the hell off, John.” So, he did. There was distance, yes, but somehow this was a relief.
Molina and Indigo tried their best to keep their younger sisters occupied while the women practiced the Forbidden Art of Yoga, but Camaria had to leave her mat from time to time to locate Cressida who enjoyed a good game of hide-and-seek or to corral little Poppy who was drawn to the fields, small and newly walking but swift as the wind. Even Arek had a hand in the caring, gently taking smaller hands into his own delicate fingers leading the stray younger children back to their mother, having become increasingly comfortable engaging with the girls as they formed their own circle of Friends with and around him.
Johanna often played music in the barn, and this was no White Radio music. She had a transistor, some kind of digital player, and secretly traded recordings from the Southern District. And this was not nearly all of it—there was all kinds of secret stuff in that place that awaited discovery. It had become a studio of delight, play, and expression with more than a hint of mischief.
Johanna brazenly broke all of The Establishment’s rules of conduct and engagement, and this catalyzed a feeling opposite to fear. She beamed brighter when her fire lit the Spirits within their Circle, her face reflecting the warmth of their glow, her unnamed/unidentified conspiracy to enliven and awaken coming to pass, to Life, knowing that their sacred space would never be raided or checked because of John’s Assignment.
And that, to Johanna, was just fucking great!
So in that space, they practiced The Forbidden Arts of Movement including yoga and dance, set to the emotional, untamed waves of unauthorized/uncensored music. The irony was not lost on her, though, John’s work for The Establishment being the very thing that protected their little sphere of Freedom, a sphere John chose not to enter.
The only thing missing was Zen, beloved Zen, who mourned beneath the cherry trees, her Wukang and their Chi, their beautiful son with shining black hair and the bluest of eyes. Someday the four of them would all be together, Johanna knew. Someday.
Camaria had left with her children, all of them reluctant to leave but looking forward to returning home to supper with Kage. Sinead lingered longer than usual, not wanting to have another encounter like she’d had the night before with Patrick, or perhaps she waited also to confide and confess, to finally speak to Johanna her secret. In any case, she did not quite get up the courage though she knew Johanna would not judge, and their conversation pivoted.
“You don’t drink wine?” Johanna asked as they settled into the lounge chairs near where Johanna kept her carboys and a few glasses. She’d poured herself a glass, and Sinead declined with a shake of her head and a wave of one hand.
“I can’t. For a couple of reasons, I guess. Patrick, my parents…” Sinead answered, accepting the water Johanna had poured for her.
Johanna’s eyes flicked up at her as she set down the bottle. She could be so intimidating sometimes…not that Sinead was afraid of her or felt controlled or unloved by her, but she could get so intense. Like a live wire. Johanna was scrappy when she was defending herself, but she was a lethal storm when she was protecting her Friends.
“I’m not trying to be a bitch,” Johanna said, softening somewhat and settling back into her chair. “You’re my friend, and I care about you. It’s just so fucking frustrating.”
“I know,” Sinead said, “I know,” she repeated, this time a little quieter.
“Can you be happy?” Johanna asked, sensing the effect she was having, releasing it from their field with one of her sighs.
“I can be happy here, when I am with you, with Camaria, but when I return to the city it’s not the same. Not at all.”
“I know what it’s like, what it’s like there. Like you are dead somehow, or want to be,” Johanna agreed, swirling the wine in her glass.
“My stomach gets into knots each time I approach the checkpoint, and little Arek, his hand squeezes mine tighter and tighter as we get closer to our Compartment Unit,” she confessed, taking a moment to glance at her little white-blonde angel who had fallen asleep on a nest of pillows beneath the loft.
“Come live with me, then,” Johanna offered.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I could never get the Papers…and my parents…” Sinead countered, surprised, flustered.
“What about them, Sinead? What about them?” Johanna challenged, trying to temper what was brewing within her.
“Oh, I don’t know…they’re not well…who would care for them?” Then picking up the bottle, said, “let me pour you some more wine,” and made to pour more for Johanna, Johanna not taking her lapis eyes off of her Friend as she leaned in with her glass to meet her half way.
“Fuck that, Sinead. You deserve so much better. You don’t owe anyone anything, especially people who abuse you like that,” Johanna said, leaning back into her chair again, reaching for her hat and plopping it onto her head to shade her eyes from the setting sun that streamed in from the open doors.
Sinead flinched a bit but knew this was Love, that Johanna’s Love was a crack of lightning, and when Sinead left to walk home that evening, her little Arek in tow, the sound it made thundered through her, low but steady.
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Bursting Bubbles
The wild accusations, in full attack, the first time Camaria purposefully disconnected as a defensive measure, retreating into her internal sanctuary, the muffled sounds, the blurred colours—it hurt at first, the muting, then she was numb…
Afterward, it took some time for the reconnection, and even then there was damage, the thread a bit more frayed.
“It’s not enough,” Kage raged. I am not enough.
“Please stop saying that, Kage, this is very painful, for you and for me,” Camaria found herself on the verge of pleading.
“You don’t want me here,” he almost whispered, quieter now.
Cressida crept, Cressida sat, Cressida watched, Seeing all there was to See, the bubble her Mother created around her bursting.
“Kage, I do not wish you away. It is the very opposite of that. I only wish you were here,” her Mother said quietly to her Father, stroking his black hair, as he dimmed, winked out, surrendered into Camaria’s arms passing out from the pain and the drink, the Other Man—the imposter, the intruder, the spectral floating OtherWorldly walk-in—leaving him spent and deflated.
The noise cleared, and Camaria felt her then, looked up to see Cressida at the top of the stairs, outside of her bursted bubble.
It has broken. I cannot keep them inside. I cannot protect them from this. She knows. She has known for a while. This is not the first time, nor will it be the last.
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The Hordes
Kage took to the streets before sunrise that morning cloaked and hooded in his preferred midnight black. He liked the night, the whispering hours before dawn—not to rise earlier than everyone else, but to be one of the last to still be awake. No one took notice of him as cloaks were common attire now that no one wanted to be noticed. Most people left each other alone these days, except when they were fighting, and Kage was hard pressed to remember the last time anyone looked him in the eye as they passed by. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was that woman, the woman with the missing eye who cackled her curses at him the night he whisked Camaria out of the city. That was three weeks ago now.

When Kage stepped in, the line was already forming with a handful of people already at the door. This was only his third time there, and already it seemed that there was a particular group that preferred the same early routine. The pair of what looked to be brothers in their mid-thirties who kept to themselves and their murmured conversation, the young girl about the age of 15 whose shifting eyes darted from person to person daring and guarded, the woman with the four children who all slept on the sidewalk beside her, obviously not ready to have been ushered out of bed to beat the rush to The Provision House.

This new routine was on the other side of the ocean from his old life of drinking, dining, fighting, and carousing, but it was the only way to provide for them for now, until he could come up with something else to sustain them. When he showed The Provision Keepers his Papers the first time he stepped In Line three days ago, only one of the Keepers dared to ask what he was doing there, in this line, when he was part of The Organization.

Only one dared to ask, and only once, for the second the final word of his questioning left his lips, Kage grabbed him by the collar and hissed close to his face, “don’t you ever ask me that, again, do you understand? Or tell anyone you saw me here, or I will cut you from your navel to your fucking throat.” He released him roughly but not so obvious as to alert many of the people who were close or aware enough to notice. The only one to witness was one of the mother’s sleeping children who cracked an eye and closed it quickly when Kage’s gaze swept in his direction.

Today the same Keeper handed Kage his Rations with a curt nod and without question.

How did I get here? Kage asked himself, although he knew full-well the answer. The Viper will never own us.

He knew the bounty of the factories that processed the food from the growing fields and greenhouses—he had experienced it through lavish feasts at parties; meal after meal in the diners over business dealings; breakfast, lunch, and supper served like clockwork in The Highrise. Food was delivered or served to the upper classes without even one smudge remaining of the earth it came from, no “thank yous” were in order for the hands that tended and harvested the bounty that fed and overfed them. And there he was, up before dawn with the rest of The Citizens vying for the scraps the entitled didn’t want.

Kage began to feel sickened, disgusted by his new-found reliance on The System, and this was only the third day he had taken a place In Line. The Citizens with whom he waited had cowered in these lines their whole lives, and most had never known any different.

Kage hadn’t experienced this side of life in the realm before, had not once cared to think much of it—why they were as dirty and cowed as they were, what it might be like to be without food or comfort. He had never felt their stress and fear, their powerlessness, their subsequent desperation, despondence, their apathy—he’d always thought it was their problem, that they didn’t deserve what he had.

He had felt fear before, yes and of course, but the fear he’d felt in The Organisation was much different. The Citizens were enslaved by lack; Kage was enslaved by privilege, compensated for it with aggression. Neither were Free. He wanted to also disappear, like the hordes of people he walked past every day, just not into dark alleys but into the sky of the countryside. Yet, he was getting fed up with hiding.

“Mama?” the boy of about 7, the eldest of the children who were sleeping on the street, said to the mother waiting in line a few places ahead of Kage. He sat up now on the pebbles, rubbing his eyes with a dirty fist. “Mama? Where is Little?” he asked. Kage felt the woman’s panic shoot through her just as he also realised the little one’s absence as they all had been caught up, distracted, in their own morning reveries.

“There!” Kage blurted and pointed to where he spotted a small figure disappearing down the sidewalk.

“Stay here!” the mother commanded the rest of her children, looking around to the others in line, sniffing for danger. She then made her decision to leave the three to fetch the one.

She chased the toddler down the street, and the closer she got, the faster he ran, laughing, caught up in the thrill of the chase and the play, oblivious to seriousness, to any sort of danger. When the woman returned panting with the wriggling toddler in her arms, a tall, strong-looking woman who was in line behind her and in front of Kage told her to get to the back.

“What?” the mother questioned, placing the toddler on the ground. “No, this was my place. I’ve been here since before dawn…”

“Get to the back!” the larger woman demanded. “If you step out of line, you lose your place. Don't you know that, you stupid woman?”

“But that’s crazy…” the mother protested.

“It’s the rules,” the bull-like woman insisted and moved to close the gap in the line, to squeeze the mother out.

As they argued, the sun just starting to cast some light on the scene, the growing line of people began to take notice—some joining in on either side, some staying out of the conflict, focusing their attention elsewhere. Kage neither engaged nor did he look away, no need to intervene just yet.

The argument inevitably received the wrong kind of attention, and two Enforcers headed their way, one a tall woman with cold eyes, the other a stocky man with a serious, wide mouth pulled slightly into a sneer. The pair looked like the ones Camaria described as the culprits in the Wild Man’s assault weeks ago. Yes, this must have been their beat.

“What’s this commotion?!” demanded the tall Enforcer.

“She stepped out of line!” exclaimed the bullish accuser.

“But I was just…” the mother said as she held her toddler’s hand while he tried to squirm out of her grip. “Stop it!” she hissed at him, then to the Enforcers, “He ran away from me, I had to…”

“You know the rules,” the tall Enforcer stated.

“But I had to get him, my other children stayed here, in line…” the mother continued, her Little pulling and twisting her arm.

“You know the rules,” the Enforcer repeated, baton in hand.

“But I waited all morning, the line is too long now, they are hungry…” the woman pleaded.

The strikes were swift and precise—one, two, three blows from the tall woman’s baton, the mother let go of Little’s hand as her arms folded over her flank where she had taken the hits. Little ran to his brother who pulled him to his side on the street, afraid now, no longer wishing to run or to play, their two sisters closer to their brother now, as well.

“Do you know the rules now?” the Enforcer said through her teeth, closer now, menacing. The strike was brutal, sent a shock wave of fear that rippled down the line. The Enforcer’s act demanded silence, demanded attention, and it was silence that she got, and they stood in full and rigid attention. Kage tried to tell himself that if he interfered now it would only make things worse for the mother, it would draw unwanted attention to himself. But some decisions are defining moments in a life, and this was one of those very moments.

“Please…I just…” the woman began…

So, when the Enforcer raised her bat once more, that was the moment Kage’s composure, his restraint, his entire plan came apart.

In an instant he felt it all: the children watching their mother cow to the violence of the Enforcers, humiliated, without power to protect even herself. Suddenly, Kage was a boy again, the impotence of his inability to help, to protect, that same boy he looked at now clutching his little brother; and their mother, she was just like his own.

Why don’t you fight? Why don’t you speak? Kage shouted in his mind, but he already knew the answer. She was not him. She had no choice. This was the only way she had to protect them all. Take the hits. Get back in line. But before the next strike, Kage stepped between the Enforcer and her target.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Kage seethed. And when the tall woman turned to use her baton on him, he removed his hood to reveal himself, the top of his tattoo licking the bottom of his jaw.

“I would not do that if I were you,” Kage warned, slowly, eyes shining black, stopping The Enforcer cold mid-swing, her own eyes widening with recognition.

There was no going back now. Who the fuck did he think he was? Batman? Robinhood? He knew his father would get wind of this and would constrict his circle to close around him. But he was certainly better off having power rather than deflating into a limp dick beggar.

Kage sauntered to the front of the line taking both his share and the woman’s share for her family. He gave it all to her, distributing it between the mother and her children so the load would not be too much for any one of them to carry. Even Little took his share, a loaf of bread he held with both of his small hands.

Kage wove back through the stunned crowd who moved in a wave to let him pass. He could not hide, no, he could never hide, but he could come back in a tougher skin. And a new plan was starting to form.

He would not be his father, no, but he would not be his mother, either.

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Protect and Provide
Kage searched through the kitchen looking for breakfast on a lazy Sunday morning. Camaria stopped what she was fiddling with at the table and watched his golden skin ripple over his bare muscled back as he reached and bent and slammed the cupboards. When he finally stood and turned to her, the sight of his chest, his lower abdomen dipping into the top of his loose cotton pants, made her want to pull the drawstring loose and chase him back into bed.

He noticed her attention and laughed.

“Naughty,” he teased, bent his head just enough that his dark hair covered one eye. That smile!

There were some provisions left in the apartment from the last wave of Envoys which sustained Camaria for the weeks she’d been there, but they were swiftly dwindling. Kage explained to her that she would be unable to attain more, being without Papers. No supplies, no food would be granted by The Establishment or the shops who sold goods over and above what rations each Citizen was allotted. Most Citizens were paid in Stamps to be redeemed at the Provision Houses, enough to keep them fed but not enough to completely relieve their hunger nevermind satiate their desires. What coin they made above that was meagre and usually spent on a birthday gift, a small treat, or a pill scored in the Carnival District.

Camaria had neither coin nor Papers—neither would she be permitted entry into the diners to which only those with Level 2 or higher had access. Camaria and The Citizens—workers, soldiers, and shopkeepers—would qualify as 3s; The Administration and The Enforcers were 2s; The Organizations and The Establishment were 1s; and The Empire’s Government, well, they took what they wanted from everyone and everything. If Camaria could not be accounted for, she would not be counted. Or erased. For being Paperless could land you in prison—or worse—as it was considered an act of rebellion against The Empire.

“I’ll bring you some food. Until we get you sorted out,” Kage stated.

“What can I do?” Camaria asked.

“Leave that to me.”

“Thank you, Kage,” she said, gathering herself to her full height as he approached where she stood.

“Admit it. You need me,” he breathed into her ear.

“Why would I admit to that?” Camaria asked, learning how to tease him back.

“I’ll go get us something to eat. And some candles. Some chocolate?” Kage asked as he raised his eyebrow. Camaria's head bobbed in agreement, her eyes brightened.

“And we need toothpaste. I’ll be back,” he said, breaking the spell, perhaps making her wait as part of their game. “I’m starving,” he said, pausing to speak the words into her neck.

And Camaria realised that she was starving, as well, ravenous in fact. Not knowing for the first time if she could ever get enough.

—-----------------

Later…

You need me.
I do?
To protect you.
To Love me.
That, too…Wait, aren’t they the same?
Not at all.
What’s the difference, then?
One is a cage, the other a Home.
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The Mist
Oh, misty eye of the mountain below
Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls
And should the sky be filled with fire and smoke
Keep watching over Durin's sons…

And I hope that you remember me.
-Ed Sheeran

Erris approached and knelt before the pyres of wood and fragrant leaves where they’d laid his brother and GrandDa to rest just outside the mouth of the cave. He bowed his curl-crowned head, sturdy but weeping, shoulders shaking with effort and release. And as he lit them with the torch he carried, the men began to sing in their tenors and baritones, their voices amplified at the cave mouth, reverberating on the rocks through the beautifully desolate landscape.

The deep tones of their unified voices sang of their ancestor’s connection to the OtherWorlds, beyond the dark and depths of the sea, where sailors voyaged through the passage of that very place. The men sang of Mothers, of Brotherhood, of Friendship, of the deep connection between their people.

As they sang, the fire of the pyre grew, an amber veil both embracing and engulfing the man and the boy, taking off the gloriously bone-deep chill of all who stood around, setting free what was suspended in the damp and the mist.

“Kilo, you are my Brother,” Finn said one day as they were carefully cleaning the glass of The Beacon’s lantern.

“As you are mine,” Kilo replied.

Somehow, despite their sorrow, both Kilo and Shiraz knew that Finn, an old and wise Soul, had chosen this, knew he was Ageless as the sea that claimed him. They knew, somehow, that this was not a forever ending, but a chapter in the great and mysterious Story where you need only turn the page for the next one to begin. So the boy and the man joined the ranks of the ancestors, floated as ash into the mysterious realm of once was, offered up for The Bard to retell and re-member from the smoke.

The men’s singing rolled into quiet as if the tail end of thunder, all of them becoming silent except one. Erris’ powerful bass pushed open the spaces between the ribs, penetrated the roiling gut, rumbled through the bones, the vibration felt a World away where it shook an apple from a tree on The Other Side of Eden. There a young woman picked it up, wiped it on her skirts, and headed off to feed it to a hungry young soldier.

Before the storm, in the night right after the Anam Cara ceremony in the shadow of The Beacon, the night of The Kiss, Shiraz, the poet, wrote, sobered by thoughts of the turning of the seasons, where the summer was cooling into autumn, marking the time when she, Kilo, and their mother would head back to their Home in Veil’s Edge. She very much looked forward to seeing Camaria, her Aunt and Uncle, her friends and family, but she would be leaving Finn. She did not want to possess him, no, but she still allowed herself to feel longing, to feel sadness about his impending physical absence. She preferred this, however, 100 times over, to feeling nothing at all, and she knew that their separation would only make her dreams and the anticipation of coming back together infinitely sweeter.

Shiraz could not have known that to come together again, land would not be the simple distance she and Finn would have to cross—it would be worlds, densities, a combing through memory, a wandering through the DreamScape, bending time itself, for Finn no longer resided on the Earth. She would have to write and rewrite him, to write and rewrite them, she would have to imagine him as he was, so he could still be here, with her. Their meetings would never be felt again in the flesh by another hug, another kiss, but to see his smile, though, would only take the time it took to close her eyes.

She could not have known, and if she had, despite her Knowings and Meanings, she would not have let him go. She would not have placed the period there. But hers was not the hand that wrote his story—she simply saw it, inked it, brought it to life.

Shiraz was to give Finn the poem she wrote when he came back from the next day’s fishing expedition. An ellipses that began with their friendship, their kiss, rather than a full stop. A beginning for their ending.

“Finn, we will find ourselves and each other, again and again, although the sea is swift and unfeeling. I am a lighthouse, and the rocks that threaten your return, already in your pocket…now you go in that strong wooden boat that your GrandDa built just for this occasion. Cast far, sink deep, and bring me back the wonders of the world.”
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Stay informed! Fill out the form below to be notified on the status of the books, when I nail down the next start date for my workshops, AND have immediate access to Your Story Matters: a FREE recorded Intro Session to explore while you wait.
The session? A reading from book 1 followed by an invitation to write!
Your adventure awaits!
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A Wish for Kage
Camaria’s brushes were swift and true yet gentle on him: the hard, unbroken lines; the soft, blurred edges; the colours that dripped on his cheeks as tears, swept black and red from his back as wings.
The title for the piece circled the landing.
Snake Charmer
Dark Angel
And she settled on:
A Wish for Kage
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Checkpoint/Camaria’s Papers
“Check this one out,” an officer in a cobalt blue uniform said to his counterpart as he spied Camaria coming down the country road toward them clad in flowing cream pants and loose shirt to match, earth brown hair glossy in the waxing sunlight. “Have you seen her before?”

“No, never,” his partner answered, “and I think I would remember her.”

The officers had been leaning on a tree at the mouth of the Checkpoint passing a cigarette back and forth. The day had been uneventful, slow, in fact, with few people interested in travelling to the country or to the desolate places that lay to the West of them—except those who lived there, of course.

Though they ranked fairly low in The Empire’s Army to have been stuck on this assignment, the officers were still expected to maintain their appearance, but in looking at their dishevelled presentation—hats hanging on a tree branch, coats unbuttoned from the heat—their appearance was not the first or even the second thought on their minds.

The pregnant woman coming toward them, on the other hand, was. The first officer—younger, taller than the first with a full head of tousled blonde hair—thought she was beautiful, in fact, and he was surprised that such a tender thought flitted through his mind. They had never seen her at this Checkpoint before, and they had been stationed there for a dog’s age. He quickly shook off the momentary tenderness as he flicked the cigarette to the ground and shoved off of the tree to meet her at the gate.

“Papers?” the blonde officer demanded. Camaria removed them from her satchel and placed them in his outstretched hand.

“What are you carrying?” asked the second officer, short and grey, stepping forward to put his hands on her pieces.

“Paintings,” Camaria answered, looking him in the eye, unmoved and unmoving.

“Paintings?” The second officer scoffed. “Let me see…”

“Joe, wait,” the first officer interjected before Officer Joe could probe and mock any further, voice now a bit weary, perhaps laced with a bit of hesitation. “Let her through,” he continued. “Look at this.” He handed Officer Joe the Papers whose face went white when he took in Camaria’s likeness, the coiled viper in the top right corner.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, Jingi ma’am, um…” Officer Joe stuttered, flustered. Kage had told her to expect this, but the sudden change in the officers’ behaviour still made Camaria uneasy. She did not want disdain nor did she want fear in response to her presence.

“I am Camaria, just Camaria,” she said to the men, who were stepping aside to let her pass, looking at her with a mixture of relief and confusion.

“That is all I am.”
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The Visitors
The Officers saw her coming down the path toward the Checkpoint before she looked up to see them. She had stopped pulling the wagon that held the bulk of her work to adjust the painting she had tucked under her arm as it threatened to slip from her grasp. The two men had grown to look forward to the days she would pass through their post—somewhat of a Madonna, one of the few things of beauty in this bleak place, this small woman creating life and art where the rest of it was intent on ruin.

They rarely spoke to each other about how she made them feel because that kind of talk was for saps, sissies, and romantics—but for both of them, Camaria was an ember of hope, a reason for them to be there, at that very post day in and day out, even if it was simply for the chance to see her and the paintings that filled her wagon. Somehow it gave their days meaning, their very being a purpose. Somehow.

So, when they saw her coming, curls blowing in her eyes, hot and struggling awkwardly with the painting, both men swiftly stood from where they lounged under the tree, adjusted their cobalt uniforms before hurrying to meet her, to see how they could help her on her mission.

For Joe, the older and shorter of the two, the effect she had on him baffled his once buffoon mind—women who were off the market weren’t interesting to him, especially pregnant women who were claimed by other men—but there she was, this Goddess, her growing belly only making her that much more beautiful. So, he hurried to aid her, pushing ahead of his tall, younger, handsome, golden-haired comrade, to be the first to reach her. Goddess? Whose words were those? What. The. Fuck.

“Let us help,” Joe said, taking the painting from Camaria. Wyatt, the younger officer, took the handle of the wagon to pull it the rest of the way to the Checkpoint.

“How are you both today?” Camaria took the time to ask, relieved to have a moment to rest as they sat on the makeshift stone bench under the ailing and ancient baobab tree that unfortunately offered very little shade.

“Better now that you’re here!” Wyatt pronounced, smiling, as he plucked Camaria’s waterskin from the wagon and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” Camaria said as she received and drank. “And while you are at it, Wyatt, there is a bag of herbs in there for you…” she said as he looked and found a brown sack, held it up, and waved it for her to see.

“This one?” he asked, smile rising up to his brow.

“Yes, that one,” she confirmed.

“What’s in it?” Wyatt said, waggling his eyebrows, smile becoming more mischievous with the question.

“For your cravings,” Camaria laughed. “I know it has been hard for you to quit the poisoned cigarette sticks.” Both men laughed, amused at how bluntly she put things sometimes.

“Thank you, Camaria,” Wyatt said, pocketing Camaria’s gift. “You’ll whip me into shape in no time.”

“I should hope so,” she played along.

After some time of visiting and catching up, Camaria rose to carry on her way. Both men rose with her, dusting off their uniforms, ensuring she was steady on her feet, for she did look due to give birth any day now. And she was a bit too flushed, belaboured even, where she usually looked strong as an ox.

“How about I escort you to The Zen?” Joe suggested. “It’s been quiet here today. And you look like you could use some help. Wyatt here won’t mind covering for me, right Wyatt?” he added, shooting his partner a quick look of warning should he even entertain the thought of disagreeing.

“By all means,” Wyatt said with a hint of mock graciousness, wishing he had thought of offering first.

“Yes. That would be very helpful, Joe. I think this may be my last day of travel until our daughter is born. It has been increasingly challenging for me to be in the city.”

“Well, we’re set then!” Joe exclaimed much more emphatically than he had intended.

“Today I will be hanging a painting of the two of you,” Camaria informed them. “But you will have to come to The Zen to see it,” she added, cocking an eyebrow at the two men.

After Camaria and Joe left, Wyatt hummed to himself for a great while, inspired to comb the plants and grasses that bordered the clearing. Upon returning to the lengthening shade of the baobab as the Sun shifted its place in the sky, he noticed a blooming white orb hanging from a vine swaying like a pendulum. It was a curious thing—all this time manning this Checkpoint, and he couldn’t recall a time when the tree did nothing but stay alive. But today it flowered. He carefully plucked the flower and laid it beside him when he sat on the bench, contemplating everything and nothing as he waited for Joe to return, planning to give the rare blossom to his mother who, he was sure, hadn’t seen a flower in quite some time.

When Joe left Camaria safe at the door of The Zen, he promised he would be back after his shift ended to see the painting hung, to finally visit the gallery of paintings Camaria so dedicatedly filled day by day, painting by painting. He had only seen glimpses of them these months since Camaria showed up in his life. Something quickened within him, something deep and buried, and he was now more curious to have a closer look.

—-----------

The trips to the gallery had become increasingly hard for Camaria to make. Not because of the pregnancy but because her agreement to this reality was becoming stronger with each moment she stayed. She knew she had the choice to agree to something else, yet the weight of the place dragged on her heels like the quicksand that it was.

Everything slowed down there—her body, her mind, her senses—dense and heavy. The smells never ceased to nauseate her, a sharp contrast to the blessed fragrance of the country. Although the country in the Western Realm still wanted for the clarity, the bright and crisp definition of the East, it was at least a relief from the odours that assaulted her in Slumber City, that scrambled her signal, her connection to all of her Homes. Kage was right about the country being a solace, for she felt well and harmonious there for the most part, as long as her hands were in the dirt and her head in the expanse of the sky, a grounded connection to Love, itself.

Camaria would start to feel the sensations crawl over her as soon as she crossed through the Checkpoint, her pregnancy heightening her senses. Holding the protective cocoon she’d created to shield her child was a drain on the energy she no longer felt as an endless source she could tune in to—it was a limited reserve she had to draw from as if sipping from a single breath gulped before a plunge into a poisonous cloud.

The nausea and noise increased as she neared the city, intensified as she hurried through the streets, becoming almost unbearable by the time she neared The Zen. She would end up at the gallery drained and exhausted, clamouring up the steps, Zen receiving then scolding her for making the trip yet grateful for the fact that she was there, with her. Today, as Joe helped Camaria to the great mahogany doors, concern pinching his lined face, she realised this would be her last visit until the baby was born.

A far cry from the bleak, grey echo chamber that was once The Gallery only months before, the space was becoming bright with texture and colour—animated, adorned, with life and lives. Camaria created from the letters held in Zen’s chest of Papers, depicted the people she met on the streets and in her travels, the people she had Loved and who Loved her, those she had only encountered briefly but desired to paint. She rendered all manner of emotion and topics, raw and unflinching—the essence, the common Truth through each unique story. She created landscapes, cityscapes, dreamscapes, and somehow when one sat with the Story she animated, they also sat with the Muse, itself.

When a new Visitor entered an hour later, having been carefully and lovingly fed and watered by Zen, Camaria was fully recovered and ready to receive.

To avoid a rather nasty scuffle in the street, the young nurse had taken an alternate route home to the Compartment Unit where she lived with her parents. By the time she arrived, strawberry blonde curls springing from the loose bun she’d piled high on her head, Sinead all but stumbled into the gallery after a long and difficult shift in The Establishment’s private Psychiatric Ward. Her head still rang with the boy in room 1111’s bellows and screams, the scuffle and crashing lamp as the Orderlies took him down.

She had never seen the entry before, nevermind the intricate carvings that adorned its dark wooden surface. Curiosity pulled her up the steps to The Zen to have a closer look, and the door became a lacquered box that compelled her to open it. Her hand lifted, pulled down on the latch, and as it opened, so did her eyes, wide, the smell of cherry blossoms and fresh rain hitting her senses at the same time as the sights, the backs of the two women as they hung a rather large painting on the wall—what looked like Checkpoint Officers casually smoking under a very large but barren tree.

Zen and Camaria’s heads turned slightly at the change in the Æther to take Sinead in through their peripheral view as they carefully but swiftly completed their task.

“Welcome,” Zen said as they secured the painting then let it go.

“Come in,” Camaria said as Sinead fully entered the space, then all three women stood back to give the hanging a quick assessment, approving.

“My name is Camaria,” Camaria ventured, approaching Sinead with her hand outstretched to perform the Western greeting of hand shaking, “and this is Zen,” she added as Zen also approached, smiling as warm as the summer Moon.

“I’m Sinead,” she said, accepting Camaria’s outstretched hand.

Camaria wasn't the kind of Curator one would expect in the West, and in addition, the role of Curator had gone extinct as there were very few galleries to curate in the Realm since the latest Apocalypse. Most settlements survived in the chapped wake of destruction, so art galleries were an unfathomable luxury, a frivolous waste of time when much of the world burned and many of the people with it. The Zen, this solace from the burning, the silence within the noise, was one of two galleries in the entire Realm, the other being in a bright, wild village in World’s End.

Camaria did not lead people around the space explaining the art, interpreting for them; she didn't point out the ones she thought they should pay attention to, the most poignant, the most meaningful. To create, share, and receive was the extent of her curation, and she left each Visitor to their own experience, to move through the sensations as they came—the laughter, the weeping, the rage, and fear, and joy—each time they visited entirely different than the last. The Visitors left the gallery cleansed and wrung out, epiphanies blossomed and rained down as delicate petals. Utterly transformed, connected, enlightened and enlivened, they became enchanted with curiosity, vowing to return again. And again. Each Visitor exited The Zen holding softly more questions than they had when they entered, which was somehow deeply satisfying. The tomb had become a womb, and they had come to be born from it.

Sinead had come.

So, Camaria carried on with the duties of sweeping and dusting, leaving Sinead to her contemplations that would lead her to her revelations.

As she moved through the gallery, to whatever paintings caught her attention, Sinead didn’t expect to cry as the stories revealed themselves to her, as the people in Camaria’s renderings spoke, died, loved, and were born. She didn’t expect to be moved, to be quickened into the act of confession.

“I think I’m pregnant,” Sinead blurted, despite Camaria being a total stranger, a woman who should be strange to her, but sensing that she was no stranger, was in fact someone she had always known for some reason on the periphery of her understanding.

“I see,” Camaria said plainly but not without kindness.

“I think I love him, but that doesn’t matter,” Sinead went on, a slight lilt in her speech. “He’ll forget me soon or will be dead. He’s been drafted and is likely somewhere in The Battlefields by now,” Sinead said as a matter of fact. Camaria continued to listen.

“My parents. I don’t know what they’ll do. They’re both Believers. But I want the baby. No matter what happens. I want him. I feel it is a him.”

“I feel that, too, Sinead,” Camaria ventured, then added, “that it is a him.” Then as soon as the words left her lips, a wave of Story washed over Camaria, fragments of light, communication from the Soul in Sinead’s womb in the form of sunken ships and lost treasure, of surfing and storms, and she shivered at the brush of a tiny unfurling tendril reaching out to her, connecting somehow to her future. She closed her eyes, swaying just a little with the waves.

“Are you alright?” Sinead asked, concerned, moving closer to where Camaria leaned on the broomstick she was still holding.

“Perfectly All Right,” Camaria answered and smiled as her eyes fluttered back open to focus on Sinead’s face. “I just need a moment.”

“Yes, and you need to sit,” Sinead commanded as she took the broom handle and led her to sit on the closest of the chairs Camaria and Zen had placed throughout the gallery.

“I just need a moment to be still,” Camaria said, her soft smile, the wave of warmth she intoned, re-assuring Sinead, though the nurse still checked Camaria over, feeling her forehead, her pulse, looking into her deep brown eyes. After some moments, Camaria said:

“Let us go into the garden, my Friend. Zen will be expecting us for tea.”

—---------------------------

Sinead was so deep in thought when she opened the doors that would lead her back out into the city that she almost collided with the man who was entering.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she exclaimed, rousted out of her reverie.

“Not a problem,” the man answered, at least a decade or two older than her, one hand still in the pocket of his slate grey coat. He smiled formally with just his lips, stepped aside, and held the door so Sinead could exit.

Night had fallen, and the street was quiet except for the two of them exchanging a glance and a nod—the man noticing the bright green lanterns Sinead peered through, and the woman noticing that the man’s eyes were almost the same grey as his coat.

Sinead thought that he looked familiar, and strange thoughts about his character skipped through her mind during their brief encounter: I wonder if he loves his wife. I wonder if this man is a kind man. Her brow contracted with confusion as to why she even cared, then she shook her head as if to clear them away. The man’s familiarity did not dawn on her until she was almost to her Compartment and realised that he was one of the Officers in the painting Camaria and Zen had been hanging, the one with the curls of smoke and the baobab tree and the single blooming white orb.

My name is Joe, he whispered.

His name was Joe.
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SECTION BREAK
BACK TO KILO

Water Fall
Kai watched her from their bed as day broke, as he always did, while she sat in the chair before the window carefully braiding her chestnut hair, selecting from her collection of ribbons which one to secure the two ends. They both listened to the birdsong that was loud and clear and strong in the cool, dewey hour right after dawn, listening for one call in particular. She rose from her seat, placed one sweet kiss on Kai's waiting lips, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and set out for her morning/mourning talk with the trees and the moss and the burbling waters, to hear and absorb what they wished to speak this fine and new day.
Tallulah left the small settlement, noticing Kilo in seated practice beside the woodshed, the place quiet with the families and Yara having returned to the South and Mani to his creations, the guests in the longhouses yet in various stages of slumber. She let the familiar paths lead her to the stream as the mountain forest bathed her in its cool, green scent, and she followed along the edge of the water that caressed and polished its bed of stones. But today, rather than move with the water that leapt and splashed over the rocks downstream, she followed it all the way up to its origin, to the lake that fed the stream, to before the lake, to The Falls that plunged into it. Even that was not the beginning, but it was a beginning, it was the beginning that she sought.
Singing in a Language Older Than Words, her own song joining those of the birds, Tallulah called to her Loved Ones, to the Soul of another. Surely there was room for another.
Tallulah removed her shoes, yelped a bit when her feet hit the cool stream, picked her way along the pebbles as she continued up, up, up to the source. She eluded the deep spots where lifting her skirts higher would not prevent her getting drenched, enjoying how the flow became increasingly louder as she approached the scene: the lake shore and The Falls beyond it.
It was a small, glorious, fresh lake, tucked and nestled into the thick of the forest. In fact, it was the same lake The Ice Man and now Kilo frequented, the cliffs they jumped from rimming the space to the South of the waterfall. Today she did not want to bathe in it as she sometimes did but to watch as it hurled itself over the edge, plunging into the lake beneath, simply and completely trusting the fall. She contemplated the journey, how each drop would somehow, someday reach the Ocean, how it would be picked up by the sky to join a formation of cloud, then be dropped as rain on The Savannah, or Egypt, or perhaps even back at this very same place.
As she paused there on a knoll in the grass, her shoes dropped at her feet that were still wet and glistening, she heard the wind change and the flap of black wings as the bird landed on a branch beside her.
“My Love, dare we hope?” she asked the trees, The Falls, her Beloved.
She turned to him with a smile that was tentative but True. He had brought her a Gift—he was always bringing her Gifts—and she opened her hand as he relaxed his beak to release a yellow ribbon into her palm. She closed her fist around it, placed it over her belly.
Kai shifted, so graceful, and once she covered him with her shawl, he moved his body to stand behind her, to wrap his arms around his Beloved, rest his hands over hers, to bury his face in her neck.
They stood like that, on the knoll of grass between the boulders, and watched the water fall.
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Arcturus
When Amara intoned Little Raven’s death to Yara down their thread, Yara was already descending the great hill toward the lip of Sirius. She stopped her descent for a moment to sit upon a rock, to steady herself, to take in the new reality, to respond, to contemplate how the blue sky bruised into purple over the glittering city. Oh, Tallulah, she lamented in her own thoughts. Oh, my Friends. How you must hurt.
My Friend, shall I return? Yara sent down their thread, her astral body flickering in the bedchamber where the family gathered around Tallulah in her anguish, the still babe in her arms.
No, Yara, we both know that the winds call you to the East, Amara sent in answer. You are still with me.
I am with you, Amara. There is no distance between us.
Yara had lost track of how many times she had visited the Twin City, having travelled consistently between Veil’s Edge and Sirius throughout the 22 years since Janus’ Holoing—learning, gleaning, in order to bring advanced technologies paired with the Cosmic Wisdom from the Deep East to the western edge of the Eastern Realm. Once she'd learned how to travel through the Astral Realm, some of Yara’s journeys were swift and instantaneous. At other times it was necessary to travel in the physical. And sometimes she took the Long Way. This particular journey was not an excursion, but a quest that required Time, Intention, and the demarcation of Effort.
It had been two years since Yara had visited Sirius in her flesh and bone body having not felt the pull to do so in those years, busy with her purpose in the Workshop with Kalea and their apprentices. With Kilo up North and Shiraz beyondering the Realm, Yara’s days were overflowing with invention where she and Kalea discovered and uncovered what already existed, applying and expressing it through new forms of technology. In the 22 years since Yara returned to Veil’s Edge with her two young twins, what would fall short of a blink in the eye of an Epoch, Yara and Kalea evolved Human ingenuity with what they’d learned from the beings in the NorthEast.
Yara and Kalea spent most of their days deeply immersed in decoding the cosmic physics, the sacred geometry of the Universe itself, tapping into the harmony of all things, dancing in the field of particle and wave, of essence and matter, of potentiality and subsequent reality. In other words, they invented devices and tools that acted as conduits for creation, communication, and connection—engineering, building, erecting generators, chambers, towers, bridges, and portals. They became, what they called in the East, Harmonic Engineers—Yara’s specialities being those of Explorer, Aviator,
The first time Yara had visited the city it was with Anahata and Kalea, her Anam Cara, when all three were in their youth. It was then she’d met Janus and where they together created their family constellation. Sirius had not changed a great deal since that first excursion almost two decades ago now, except for the palpable absence of Janus, Yara’s North Star. (they are the Rock and the Star)
When Yara began to return regularly to the city without her Beloved, her relationships with the members of The Council—M, Matias, Enoch, and The MapMaker—grew and evolved, and it took some years for Yara to take any special notice of Enoch, an Airship Builder, though he had long since taken special notice of her. Their encounters were lovely, safe, and there was a deep affection between them, a profound bond of support and intimacy, but their union existed only in the Vesica of their individual spheres, where each of them spent most of their being in the spaces that did not intersect. And they were content. It was enough.
Yara roused herself from her reverie to make her way down the rest of the hill, to pass under the purple sky and through the golden gates of the city of treasures to find whatever jewel she felt waiting for her, nestled within.
—------------------------
Yara took her pack off of her back and placed it on the marble floor of the bedchamber Enoch occupied in The Tower behind The Upper Room. He was expecting her.
“Yara, there is someone you must meet,” Enoch said bowing his dark head to look down to the bundle in his arms then back up to Yara. Yara approached, curious, and Enoch bent his tall frame to place the tiny, new babe in Yara’s arms.
“This is Arcturus,” Enoch told her. “His mother is dead.”
“And his father?” Yara asked, astonished as she took in the baby’s delicate features, marvelling at the OtherWorldly beauty of the child. His soft almost translucent bluish/white skin, his shiny black hair, the calm way he peered up at her with his deep set blue/black eyes. Yara knew just by holding him that he rarely if ever cried.
“I am his father,” Enoch stated. At that, Yara broke her gaze from the child’s spellbinding face to spy Enoch who stood tall yet questioning, deep blue eyes seeking her reaction.
“And you want me to care for him.”
“Yes.”
“Because your place is here and his is not.”
“Yes.”
Without hesitation, Yara replied: “I will do this. I Love him, already.”
“I am not surprised. He attracts/entices your Love without even asking. By simply being,” Enoch said as he leaned over Arcturus and placed a gentle kiss on his son’s downy head. “And you, well, you are Yara.”
The next day after some rest, meeting with The Council, and replenishing her provisions, Yara disappeared over the hill, the purple skies fading once again into blue, carrying with her another bundled gift.
“When you want to connect with your son, and we are not here in the flesh, Enoch,” Yara had said, “take your airship to the sky and look for the brightest star.”
For 7 years Yara and Arcturus visited Sirius only through the Astral Realm, and on Arcturus’ 7th birthday they took their first trip through the Physical Realm to the Twin City and travelled back and forth for the next cycle of 7 years. When Arcturus was 14 he did not return to Veil’s Edge with Yara but stayed to learn what his father and The Council had to teach him.
On the night of Arcturus’ 24th birthday, Yara looked up into the sky to find the brightest star as she did every night.
Arcturus, my Son, she sent.
Yes, Mama, Arcturus replied.
A gift is coming your way.
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SECTION BREAK
BACK TO CAMARIA
More Is Less, and Less Is More
Before he deposited them into the safe for safe keeping, Kage counted the coins, extracted what he would need to purchase supplies in the city, which surprisingly was not a lot since Camaria made mostly everything they needed from what they had on their land—she sheared and darned the sheep’s wool, she chopped and planed the wood, she planted gardens of vegetables and lettuces, wildcrafted from fields of cotton and dandelion and mushrooms—she even made many of the tools she would need to do such things.

Yet, Kage wanted for more. Things that could not be made by hand, that required the toil from the factories of the Northern District that popped products off conveyor belts, shiny and manufactured, in colours not found in the dun hues of nature, things that only the Upper Crust could ever dream to obtain. As his coffers of coin grew, so did the grip The Establishment, the Organization, The Viper had on him, and he knew this, yet it remained what he worked and wanted for—the need seemingly never ending, a hunger of an origin that could not be fed with coins.

Camaria’s renunciation of such things only made it worse. For “things” were all he had to give her. If coin and the things it could get them meant nothing, then what was the fighting, the killing, the bowing and scraping before The Viper for, anyway? He had sold his Soul to the Devil. He’d better make it count. More or less, what it did buy, Kage reasoned with himself, was safety from starvation, from those who hated him, from the harsh world they lived in, and those beliefs quelled the fires of regret that threatened to consume him.

There was something else, too, about Camaria’s simple way of life that made Kage feel somewhat inadequate, because what could he provide her that she could not create herself? He convinced himself that those things were safety; protection; a good and thorough roll in the hay.

She always told him that it was he, himself, that was the only thing she wanted from him, but he could not fathom how that could be enough.

Kage knew she was naive to think they could ever be safe and free, he knew that she would not love or need him if he admitted what nothing there was beneath the fighter’s bravado, the money stashed in the wall of his office, the naughty grins and deft lover’s hands.

So, when Camaria told him about how they could live with their child, with the other children they may have, much like how she grew up in the Eastern Realm in a reality they created that was very different from the one in which they found themselves there just outside of the sleeping city, Kage bit.

“Not everyone had an enchanted childhood like you, Camaria,” a tiny nip, but enough to make her flinch.

“No, they did not,” she had to agree.

And Camaria continued to create a possibility while Kage remained intent on counting.
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Wild Horses (The Four Winds)
They dubbed them The Four Winds—the four horses that increasingly frequented the grasses beyond Johanna and John’s yard. It seemed they had settled somewhere close by, bedded down at night in a field or brush in the vicinity. Often the women and children would watch them from afar as they grazed, cantered, tossed their heads or whipped their tails to keep away the incessant pesky flies. Sometimes they would run at a full gallop, manes flying behind them in the wind, powerful legs propelling them, hooves thundering on the grassy land beneath leaving clouds of dust to blow in their wake; and this, this was when Johanna most wanted to ride, whooping and hollering: eeeeeyaaaaawww!
“They've come into the yard,” Johanna told them. “I’ve seen them closer now, early in the mornings, into the evening. I started leaving them food, but they don’t eat it, they don’t need it,” she said, pensive, the three women and their children watching the horses graze where the green field met the hazy pinking sky. “I think it best anyway. Then they won’t learn to rely on anything but themselves and the land they know so well. So, I stopped leaving it. But they appreciate the water. So, I built them a trough behind the barn. I’m thinking that may be a gathering place: for us and the horses,” she finished, pausing.
“They are curious about us,” Camaria said, also watching the four, her gaze as soft as the pink sky.
“Yes, they seem to be,” Sinead added, brow furrowing, squinting slightly with her effort to focus, to make out the details of each majestic creature.
“They absolutely are,” Johanna asserted.
“I have gifts for you,” Johanna suddenly announced, breaking their reverie, looking pleased with herself as she bounded to the space under the loft where they stowed the nest of pillows and a more intimate work area complete with wooden table full of tools and supplies and a couple of chairs to sit in as they worked. Johanna ducked under the loft, and the women followed; the children stayed outside to play.
“I made y’all cowgirl hats!” Johanna announced as she pulled out the three that were stacked one on top of the other, each woven creation identical to her own but newer, less worn in.
“For you,” she said to Sinead, and Sinead answered with a grin and a “thank you.”
“And you,” Johanna said to Camaria as she handed Camaria hers.
“Thank you, Johanna,” Camaria said as she received the gift.
“These are just great!” Sinead exclaimed, immediately attempting to put the hat onto her head—which did not fit over her bun—then taking it off again, releasing her strawberry curls, then putting the hat on once more. Camaria’s hat went on easy, fitting loose but secure, fitting like a workhand’s glove.
“This last one’s for Zen,” Johanna said, referring to the last hat she was still holding. “We’ll give it to her the next time we hit The Zen,” she promised.
“She may come someday—out here, I mean,” Sinead hoped.
“She will,” Camaria asserted.
—-------------
The next Saturday was the first Saturday of many they would spend together—just the women and The Four Winds. The children stayed home with Kage, including Arek, having gotten comfortable enough with the girls that their Father was safe by default. The weather was grand—the rising sun bright enough to almost penetrate the haze of the realm. Sinead arrived with little Arek in tow, and after getting him settled with Camaria’s family at the breakfast table—all three of their older girls doting on their Friend as Kage cooked—Camaria and Sinead set off to meet Johanna at The Barn. All three women were hoping to make first physical contact with the mares today, perhaps even to ride.
With some coaxing by Johanna, Sinead had been relieved of her duties that Saturday and every Saturday indefinitely due to John’s prescription for therapy; and of course therapy sounded perfect to Patrick as it could only lead to his imperfect wife becoming more and more the good wife he, himself, prescribed her to be. He would accept nothing less, and Sinead put on an even better show of it whenever she would return. In Patrick’s mind, it was working—Sinead being more agreeable and less sullen—and in Sinead’s mind, she roamed free.
After their arrival, the three women rounded The Barn to where three of the mares had already gathered, a regular routine of watering themselves each morning at the trough Johanna had built. The mare they called The East Wind was elusive as ever, off a bit in the distance having trotted off from the trough at the sounds of the women approaching.
The women had agreed on what attire might be best for the day ahead and were dressed in long pants though it was a warm day. All of their shirts were loose, however, Johanna’s even hanging off one shoulder. Johanna and Camaria looked as if they were born to wear their hats, yet Sinead’s hung from a string around her neck resting on the top of her back.
“You look like a little kid,” Johanna teased, “your hat like that,” she said and laughed.
“Oh, shut up, Johanna,” Sinead countered. “Not everyone can look as bad ass as you two,” she said. Camaria smiled to herself to hear their play.
“How will we get the saddles on?” Sindead asked.
“What?! We’re not going to saddle them!” Johanna exclaimed, appalled. “I wouldn’t do that to such a majestic creature! We go bareback!” she said, conspiratorial smile sliding across her face.
“Bareback?! How the hell do we get on? How the hell do we stay on?” Sindead complained, unsure with an incredulous expression to match.
“It can’t be that hard,” Johanna said, eying up the herd who were mere metres away from them now, seeming to be well aware of the women, almost as if they both awaited an invitation and were deciding if they would accept. The midnight black one held Camaria's attention, and the horse lifted her head making eye contact.
“Come,” Camaria both said aloud and intoned. And she came, two of the other horses following her lead. And as if she always knew how to do it, Camaria approached the mare, gripped the horse’s mane, and swung herself onto her back.
Johanna and Sinead looked on, dumbfounded, silent, mouths hanging open until Johanna let loose:
“What the fuck?!”
“How did you?” Sinead sputtered.
“Invite them,” Camaria simply said, patting her mare on her broad silken neck, then adjusting her body to fit around the girth of her back.
“I am NOT going to be able to get up on one of those horses like that!” Sinead asserted.
“I can!” Johanna declared. “I like the silver one. Look at her mane, like ribbons. She’s the fastest…I’ve seen them running, and she’s always in the lead. I should call her QuickSilver.” And as if to protest, the mare let out a snort and dug at the ground a few times with her front hoof.
“Ok, not that, then,” Johanna said.
Camaria thought to advise Johanna to talk to her first, to connect, but before she could, Johanna approached the mare, attempted the same move that had Camaria up onto the black horse's back, and was promptly tossed before she could get a leg up and over.
“Are you ok, Johanna?!” Sinead exclaimed, running to her side. “Are you hurt? And Johanna got up, picked up her hat, surprising her Friends with her laughter.
“Well, that will teach me!” Johanna exclaimed, dusting off the hat and placing it back onto her head. “Camaria, you seemed to have wanted to tell me something. I’m thinking I should listen.”
“That would be wise,” Camaria remarked, and Johanna laughed again.
Throughout the morning, the women became acquainted with their horse companions—their demeanours and tendencies—how to be with them, how to communicate with them in words, actions, and resonance. They observed and respected what they liked, tolerated, and did not like. They each began to bond with a particular mare, the very one they needed, and of course, Sinead’s companion was patient, Johanna’s fiery, Camaria’s wholly present.
Neither Johanna nor Sinead were horse women, but Camaria, who seemed to be everything, had ridden a great deal in The East. So, Camaria taught them. They learned from her how to both use their bodies and work with the horses. It took some time, but both Johanna and Sinead were quick studies. By mid-day they were ready to attempt to mount.
At first Sinead struggled with the physicality of the movements and had to use a stool at first, the most difficult part clutching the mare’s blonde mane and swinging her short, somewhat stout body onto The West Wind's caramel back. But the horse was immensely patient, even bowed down somewhat to reduce the challenge, and eventually Sinead got on. Her sense of elation and success, however, was quickly joined by a shock of fear at the height, the ride ahead, the power between her legs. Camaria coached her through the panic.
“Breathe, Sinead, feel her calm. Remember how to tell her which way you would like to go, how fast and how slow. Speak to her with your words and without your words. She can hear you.”
Johanna had been patient, but once Sinead was secured and positioned, she was more than ready to go. She let Camaria slow her roll just a bit so she wouldn’t end up on her ass as she did that morning, but, man, was she ready!
“Okay, okay,” she said as slowly as she could as she patted The South Wind’s neck, reached up and gripped her mane, strongly but not roughly as Camaria had shown her. The horse moved a few steps forward then backward, Johanna keeping up a little clumsily but hanging on strongly.
“Please allow me,” she asked the horse who looked at her sidelong and let out a long, loud, lip-flapping sigh as if to say “fine—I don’t like it, but I will allow it.”
“Cheeky,” Johanna said and smiled a little nervously, “I like it.” And after a few breaths, Johanna swung her body and was up in one try.
“Oh my god, yesss,” Johanna exclaimed, excited but not as animated as she would have been had she been safely on the ground and not atop a 1700 pound wild horse she wanted to be sure not to spook.
Once they were up on their horse companions and ready to take their first ride, Sinead noticed the fourth horse wandering ahead in the fields.
“That one is waiting for Zen,” Sinead said, and the women paused to look in the white and black mare’s direction, their silence a whole-Hearted agreement.
“She can ride with us today,” Camaria told them, “not in body, but she will feel it almost as if she were here in the flesh.” And with that Camaria tugged their thread to which Zen responded with a tug of her own. They then slowly rode toward The East Wind who amazingly enough did not run away, and when they were close enough and had her attention, Camaria made the introduction. Zen, meet The East Wind.
And from her bench where she sat in The Zen garden, Zen smelled the breeze, the yellow flowers that dotted the field, the wild of the horses, felt the warm body beneath her hands. She saw the faces of her friends, felt the field of their Hearts opening to and carrying her own. The West, South, and North largely moved together as they rode, but the East, she tended to gallop ahead or in a circle around them—exploring or running just to run.
So, The Four Winds carried them, slowly at first but by the end of the day they were ready to run: The elusive East Wind, Zen’s equine companion; The gentle West Wind, Sinead’s; The fiery South Wind, Johanna’s; The North Wind, Camaria’s, who was the Star of the North, The Way Home.
And they lost track of time as the sun’s lid began to descend, closing with it the day…
As they turned back toward The Barn where the fields of the neighbours met, Kage spotted them riding. The children were fed and settled playing in the great room, and Kage had come out for a stretch. Witnessing them there like that…it made him proud, though he knew he had no right to be proud of something he had no part in creating…but they had done it, and he was proud all the same, they were riding, actually galloping with horses that were wild.
He could have watched them forever, for all time, the scene before him—the trouble and the release, the thrill and the joy of Freedom. Instead of returning to the house, Kage leaned on one of the pillars in the courtyard and watched them for many minutes.
Across the field, he could hear their whoops and laughter; Johanna hollering “heeeyawww,” legs lifting her butt up and down with the motion of the horse’s gallop; Camaria encouraging her horse companion with a strong, punctuated, “he! he!” with her head down to slice through the wind; Sinead like a girl on a carnival ride, hollers more like excited, joyful yelps of terror, though hanging on, sturdy, but not quite yet releasing into the confidence of the wind.
And Kage walked to the back of the yard so he could whoop with them.
“Heeeeyaaaawww!” Kage called to them, joined with them, in their wild declarations. And the women looked his way, Camaria tipping her hat, Johanna giving him a full armed circle of a wave, Sinead with her hands full, one gripping her mare’s mane and the other fumbling with her hat, but beaming a smile as bright as the sun that burst its orange glow over the horizon.
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Wukang
After passing through the Checkpoint with no incident, save for the strange look she usually received when presenting her Papers to the officers, Camaria tucked her day pass into her front pocket and headed south-east until she reached ______ Lake.

Deeper into the forest now, Camaria marvelled up at the white-barked trees that reached their thin bodies toward meandering pregnant clouds that made way in intervals for brilliant blue sky. Where the NorthWest countryside, her home now, was an expanse of fields pocketed with small forests, the SouthWest was a dense den of unmappable woodland, unexpected surprises of small glens, wildflower fields, waterfalls that hung around the most unsuspecting corners.

Here the animals were not shy and quiet, they were neither fearful nor skittish. Here they sang and squawked, chirped and scuttled, splashed and rustled, made themselves utterly, quantifiably known. Camaria delighted in the banter, turning her attention to one, then another, then to all at once—all of her brain’s hemispheres in coherence, in harmony with the diverse and joyful chatter of life. The aroma of the forest was a heavenly mix of bark and wet leaves, and dew sat heavy, ready to drop from the foliage, from rain that passed seemingly mere minutes or hours before she’d arrived. And it was only her desire to reach the hermit’s shop that kept her from planting herself in the earth to forever bathe in the young forest.

So, Camaria carried on, picked her way down the gently trodden paths that seemed to open up to lead the way, touching the grass and leaf ground with her light-booted feet, the rocks and tree trunks with her reverent hands—she moved the branches aside to make her way aided by her additional sense of sight.

The thicket opened to ___ Lake, and from there the Straddler’s shop was not hard to find. The river was quite shallow, and she intuited just where to cross, cool water lapping just below her knees and the hem of her pants she had rolled to keep dry. The shop, which was really a simple log cabin with a live moss roof, donned a crooked sign between the door and the single front window with the words “Emporium of Curiosity & Wonder” carved into the birch wood. And was Camaria ever curious and infinitely filled with wonder. It was nothing special; though charming, it was nondescript, ordinary. What better disguise for the extraordinary.

As she raised her hand to knock on the wooden shop door, a mid-sized man of an age she couldn’t quite pin down opened up and greeted her enthusiastically.

“Welcome to Rongbao! Rongbao, Rongbao, esteem and treasure…that does sound impressive does it not? Welcome to my home, my shop, where you find diamonds in all this rough.” His eyes that turned up slightly at the corners twinkled though he squinted, a mop of straight dark hair haphazardly pushed back from his face, his skin was the loveliest caramel tan.

“It is a beautiful place,” Camaria marvelled as the man moved aside to let her pass through the doorway. She instantly felt the enchantment—not a spell or trick, but a warm invitation to explore, to stay, and to play.

“My dear, my dear, my dear, sit, sit! You must have come a long way,” the man chattered and fussed. “And with such precious cargo to carry!” he exclaimed as he scooched a very pregnant Camaria into a chair.

“Thank you,” Camaria said, the warmth of the man’s presence prompting a smile to lift her lips.

“Some tea, my dear? Would you like to take some refreshment?” he stopped to ask, ending his question with his own smile full of shiny, white teeth.

“Yes. Yes, please,” Camaria accepted, just realising how tired she was having walked an additional hour from The Zen through the city and the forest to arrive there at his door.

As he clanked and bustled around in the back kitchen getting things ready, Camaria had a chance to rest and get a good look at this place Wukang had created, where he hosted so many beyonderers who found themselves there.

The shop consisted of an open area at the front where the two of them entered, and a sitting area in one of the front corners with mismatched chairs where Camaria now sat. The walls were lined with shelves full of treasures of all kinds from all over the realm, from other realms, from the OtherWorlds. Items were hung, propped, and piled on every surface, every corner of the room. Various free-standing displays offered a better look at more organised goods—handmade papers, woodworking tools, measuring devices, scales, beads, knives, and yes, paints. A colourful abacus sat atop the larger waist-high glass-faced showcase that stood between the main room and the doorway to the living quarters in the back, a peculiar array of jewellery and smaller, more precious wares inside. A beautifully carved bow with its exquisite quiver of arrows lay on the opposite side of the display.

The place was much larger than it looked on the outside yet was still quite cosy and quite full, yet not entirely cluttered—it seemed to have everything an artist, a creator, may ever want and perhaps some things they may not have known they needed. There was no panic or pressure to look through it all—each treasure made itself known, was noticed by the very person who sought it, every acquisition the correct one.

Camaria took a moment to regard the man as he returned to the room bearing his tray full of offerings from the kitchen. When he turned his eyes up from his tea service to look at her, Camaria saw that they were a beautiful smoked hazel that glowed against his rich and dusky skin.

“May I ask, what is your name?” Camaria asked, seeking an entry point, a connection point, a way to know him. “My name is Camaria.”

“Yes, of course, we must be introduced! I am Wukang,” he announced with a playful bow, having set down the silver tray with a bit of a rattle on the table before her. “First we shall quench your thirst, then we shall enjoy some conversation and reveal what you are here to discover.”

Wukang sat across from Camaria and handed her a thick hand-blown glass with white and pink swirls of colour spiralled around the centre. It was full of water which Camaria drank while Wukang prepared their tea in the same tradition as Zen had in The Garden. Camaria set down the empty goblet after admiring the artistry, the grace of the vessel despite its sturdy bulk. Wukang poured some fragrant green tea into a cup adorned with delicate paintings of pink blossoms and handed it to Camaria. He then poured himself a cup, and they both took their first sips in silence.

“Fruit? Biscuits?” he offered, holding up a plate with similar patterns to the tea set. Camaria accepted the entire plate with gratitude—this made Wukang smile once again.

When she’d eaten enough, sat long enough, and Wukang was satisfied that she was well cared for, they turned their attention from the tea and the food to their own stories, to the stories the treasures around them whispered of the past and promised to tell in the future, stories each item collected as it was itself collected then passed on from collector to collector.

“Are you quite well and content?” Wukang asked Camaria, a bit more serious than he had been thus far.

“Yes, quite,” Camaria asserted.

“Then, let us explore!” Wukang exclaimed, pointing one finger in the air, smile and twinkle returning.

They both rose from their seats and began to wander through the shop—Wukang guiding, Camaria trying to follow, carrying her second cup of tea in both hands. There were items Wukang intuited to show her, telling her all about where they came from and how they had come to rest in this place, and other items that simply caught her eye, but the most important were saved for last.

Camaria thought Wukang was one of the kindest men she had ever met, and she had met a lot of kind men. He was not unlike her father, she mused, and a pang of yearning squeezed her heart at the thought of him and of her mother. Wukang was quick, bright, brilliant; friendly for a hermit or maybe because of being such. The worn path to and from his cabin and his torn and tattered cloak indicated that he left his hermitude often. He was energetic, quite like a squirrel, flitting but remembering each brief moment. When he spoke he often raised one finger as if he was having a great epiphany which he most likely was, which, in fact, he had at that very moment.

“My dear, my dear, my dear, you do have an interesting eye. Intriguing really, what it is that calls to you, yet what calls to anyone is always intriguing. You do know exactly what you desire, but refined by what you need—you also understand what you do not need, which is most important, I do think.” Wukang squinted, again, musing further on his tangent yet not needing to verbalise his thoughts. Camaria understood. Perfectly. So, he allowed her to lead for a time, let her lead him with her questions to the corners of the shop that pulled her in.

“Where did these come from?” Camaria asked, holding up a tiny pair of ivory knitted booties.

“Ahhh, yes. Lovely little things. Those were spun from the hands of an old woman who spent a lifetime knitting soft cocoons of warmth for the wee ones. Blankets, mittens, tiny caps for their downy heads, and foot coverings like the ones you hold now,” Wukang answered, gesturing with a glance to the booties Camaria held. “She is not creating any more, I am afraid,” he continued, a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “She has been displaced, her hands now idle.”

“I see,” Camaria said, stopping to take in the woman’s story, her legacy now a withered, hollow oak. “She has been uprooted,” she stated.

“Yes, my friend,” Wukang lamented, “she has.”

They continued to pull items from shelves, holding others up to examine in the light. Every treasure in the place stripped itself, wanting to be seen in the blooming field of Camaria’s ImaginalScape. Her host’s presence was a flickering warm light through the dark, narrow halls of every great museum where she paused to read each history illumined by the flickers. Wukang’s story was there in the cup encircled by Camaria’s hands, in a spot of sun on the small table, laid bare in the delicate tea set.

“I will give you space to look around undisturbed,” Wukang said. “Please, take your time,” he invited and went off to take care of some sorting in another corner of the shop.

“Thank you,” Camaria replied, and continued to wander, a third cup of tea in hand. Once alone, the first thing she zeroed in on, of course, was the rather large display of paints, brushes, canvases, and the like. She could acquire canvases closer to home in the city, but the paints—those were harder to come by, especially those of quality. When Camaria inspected the glass pots that contained them more closely, she realised they were much more than mere high quality. The colours were laced with not simply the pigment, but the filament, the essence, the elements of gold and platinum, of bronze and silver—she felt the oxygen breathe through the cloud white, the laughter bubble through the chick-fluff yellow, heard the seagulls calling over the ocean of turquoise, the cawing murder of crow-black.

“You must know my father, and my mother,” Camaria finally said, fingering the pots, the brushes, her brow furrowing.

“I must know your father, and your mother,” Wukang parroted, poking his head up briefly from where he was crouched behind the showcase—or was it not parroted but confirmed? He was an echo, awakened to his emptiness, a chamber awaiting the subsequent insight, amplifying, repeating, reverberating it. The familiarity of one birdsong to the next until the other bird responded.

Camaria was confused at first, then when she noticed his smile and his rare and temporary stillness as he assessed her expression, she realised his answer was a confirmation.

I know your parents. I know you, too, he told her, his bright eyes shining. Then his head disappeared behind the case again.

Camaria’s attention went to the tea set which still sat on the table, drained of its contents, only drips remaining in the pot, only crumbs remaining on the matching plates. She looked down at the cup she held, fingered the brushstrokes, a deep familiarity stirring within her, turned it to read the signature brushed on the bottom.

“Who?” Camaria began, but did not need to finish.

“My wife. She painted them,” Wukang said, smile smaller, now at her side having emerged from his busywork behind the showcase.

“Yes, of course,” Camaria breathed, eyes moving back and forth from the delicate china to the pain in Wukang’s face.

“Please take it, Camaria. It must go with you,” he said.

“Yes, it must,” Camaria agreed. “And I will. With gratitude.”

“It is I who am grateful, my dear, for the threads that led you here, today of all days.”

“It is his birthday,” Camaria stated, setting down the cup, her left hand stopping to rest on her belly. “Your son.” And Wukang only nodded and smiled in soft remembrance.

At the back of the shop, Wukang laid sheets of golden paper on the countertop and wrapped each delicate piece of the set very carefully, with such love and longing Camaria almost didn’t want to take them. But she knew that the pieces held a story of the past, which if brought back into the world, could catalyse, create space, for the rising of a new future from the ashes of the past.

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The Wheel of Samsara
Johanna was over for lemonade and getting on with Kalea and Anahata like a house on fire. The connection between the three of them was electric with Kalea’s bubbles of laughter, Anahata’s bearlike play, and Johanna’s shocks of honesty. She had made them hats as a welcome, brought Kage the one she’d been working on for him, and they all donned them to keep the Sun from their eyes and the joy in their Hearts. John, of course, was caught up at the office until after supper. His loss, Johanna thought, not denying the bitter tone of her thoughts.
There were everyday chores to tend to, of course, but many hands make little work, so they finished early, and Camaria, Kage, and their guests took the afternoon to eat, sip their cool beverages, and watch the children play.
“Do you hear that?!” Johanna exclaimed, sitting up from her place in the chair she’d been lounging in. The group listened for a minute, then, yes, they heard it, a finger of sound drifting over, beckoning them. Pipe organs? Brass horns? A bit off and distorted, a drag in its underlying frenzy, but yes…
“Music!” Camaria announced.
“How curious,” Kalea said.
“It’s from the Carnival!” Johanna informed them.
According to Johanna, there was a travelling carnival that enlivened the rusty old grounds not far from their acreages every Blue Moon. Camaria and the children had explored the abandoned place on more than one occasion, but would not have guessed that it ever came to life, nevermind every Blue Moon. Kage had never heard tell of the carnival before, either, growing up a city boy much too engrossed in the life he’d lived there to care in any way what went on outside of The Fringe.
Johanna had heard about the carnival through some of her peddler friends and had visited the site to display her hats that very morning. It was a bit slow, and the rides were not in operation given that it was day, but she’d been assured that the place awakened with spellbinding magic and fantastical curiosities once the night set the backdrop.
“A bunch of smoke and mirrors, but it could be fun!” Johanna declared. “Oooh, you guys, let’s fucking go!”
“We can care for the children while you attend,” Anahata offered.
“Oh, and I’ll drag John out, and he and Kage can finally meet! Let’s go, the four of us!” Johanna implored, bouncing a little in her seat now.
“Is this a place for children?” Camaria asked Johanna, tuning in to the distant sounds. “It does not feel to be.”
“Many people bring their children, but I would never bring a child there,” Johanna advised.
“Should we go then?” Camaria asked, brow furrowing slightly in thought.
“Yes!” Johanna asserted, “because it’s still fun! We’re adults. We know what we’re getting into.”
“You might discover something there,” Kalea said thoughtfully, to Camaria, to Kage, to Johanna. And that they felt was true.
—------------
Camaria and Kage followed the music through the field, then the path through the trees that lined the southern rim of their little piece of the country. From a distance the music was alluring, full of emotion that fluctuated between excitement and terror. The couple held hands, strolled through the warm night air, experiencing the mystery together, exploring places they had never walked, which led them to stop to explore a little more of each other, Kage having backed Camaria up to a tree, becoming dark and feral. Just the way Camaria liked him.
“This is nice, Kage,” Camaria managed to breathe between kisses, her hand on his chest to feel the warmth of him through his loose cotton buttoned shirt.
“You’re beautiful,” Kage said, toying with the strings at the neck of her blouse. “I could take you right here,” he added, his hands roaming to her waist, the sides of her ribs.
“Why don’t you then,” Camaria invited, and Kage meant to take her up on that invitation.
“Good evening, LoveBirds!” Johanna’s voice peeled from the trees, startling them back to earth. The couple sobered, straightened their clothes, Camaria cleared her throat. Kage ran his fingers through his hair and reached for Camaria’s hand so they could meet Johanna and John who emerged from the thicket.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Johanna musiced with a sly smile, eyes bright under her hat. This time she wore boots to match and a pair of frayed cut offs.
“Oh, save it, Johanna, you’re not sorry,” Kage said, smiling back at her with his eyes, “you do have the worst timing.”
“Or the best,” Johanna parried.
“Hello,” Camaria said, taking a step toward John who was recovering from the awkward first impression, “I am called Camaria. This is Kage…”
“Her Beloved,” Johanna finished, smiling again. “They call their lovers, their spouses, ‘Beloveds’ in the East.”
“I see, yes,” John said, “I’m John,” he responded, shaking Camaria’s hand then Kage’s who reached forward to intercept the greeting. John was very handsome, Camaria noticed, clean shaven, hazel eyes, brown hair combed away from his square-jawed face and parted on the side. He was cleanly dressed but in nothing that any of them would recall after this night. John was lean, as well, yet stood a few inches shorter than Kage, and a bit more compact. Both men smelled very nice, very nice, indeed.
“I hear you are a psychiatrist,” Kage asked.
“Yes,” John answered.
“Tell me more about that on the way,” Kage said as he let go of Camaria’s hand to give him a little clap on the shoulder which had the effect he wanted, and John relaxed. Johanna linked her arm around Camaria’s to follow the men with a bounce in her step.
—------------
Johanna’s trading friends did not mislead her. The grounds were alive! As they drew nearer, the music became louder, and they saw the sources of the screams that assisted in the rising decibel of sound. Though the energy of the mass of people threatened to overwhelm her keen senses as it often did in the city, Camaria allowed it to flow through her rather than into her, and at Johanna’s coaxing, she even began to enjoy the experience.
The space was rather small, in actuality, with only a handful of rides, but it was so packed with venues and people that they could wander for a few hours and not see the same thing twice…unless they were looking for it. Once oriented, the couples wove through the venues, played some games, sampled the food, did what most carnival goers do at such places. It was there that Kage’s coin came in quite handy.
“Hey!” Johanna declared, “there’s someone wearing one of my hats!”
“You’re famous,” John dryly ventured to jest.
“Don’t you know it!” Johanna agreed, colliding shoulders with her husband as she linked his arm to walk with him.
“Oh, there!” Johanna exclaimed. “Let’s ride that one!” she said, pointing up to the tallest ride, a great vertical wheel that slowly turned round and round, the one that read ‘The Wheel of Samsara’.
“That one looks All Right,” Camaria said, stopping for a moment to have a gawk as the wheel rose carrying its riders into the sky.
“Let’s go then,” Kage agreed, grabbing her hand to move them along. The Ride Operator moved the line rather quickly, and before long, they had paid their coin, were seated, the couples facing each other, and were on their way.
“Enjoy the view,” the Ride Operator said to Camaria and winked before he pulled the lever to lurch the wheel into motion.
The wheel began its ascent in a wide ark both away from centre and up into the sky, and all in the cage they rode in became their own variety of excited with the ascent.
“Oh the view, Kage,” Camaria breathed, as the full effect of the panorama came into view as they neared the top. The ride stopped right there, at the pinnacle, to let more ride-goers off then on, the city lights pulsed and twinkled, the contrast of the black horizon lending it more shine than it might have had otherwise.
“Kage, this is an even better view of the city than from your office.” And the ride lurched back into motion once again, then they descended, passed the point of entry, ascended again. Round and round they went, two times, three…
Johanna, highly amused, wanted to rock the cage.
John keenly observed the reactions of those in his company.
Kage began to wonder when the ride would ever stop, but round and around they went, and he became more and more agitated with each revolution until he just wanted to get the fuck off. Though he managed to hold his composure, Camaria felt his struggle intensely and intoned to her Beloved her concern:
Kage, are you alright?
I’m fine, I just want to get off already.
And then, as soon as he asked, the ride stopped and began to release the people one cage at a time. When they were next, the Ride Operator observed the beads of sweat that had formed at each of Kage’s temples, then casually, cheerily said as they exited:
“I hope you enjoyed the view,” this time appearing to address Kage who ignored him, pushing past his company to get off, and quickly hurrying away from the wheel, disappearing into the crowd.
“Kage!” Camaria called, catching up to him, touching his shoulder, where he shrugged her off before realising it was his Beloved and not some stranger.
“I’m sorry,” Kage sputtered, “I don’t want to be abrupt, it’s not you, hon, please I just need to go. Can we meet at home? Will you be ok?” he asked and slowed down a bit but did not stop his escape from the wheel.
“Yes, of course, Kage,” Camaria assured him, not wanting to block his liberation. “I will go with Johanna and John. Please, do not worry.”
And with that Kage disappeared once more into the stream of bodies and cyclical waves of noise.
“Is he ok? Where is he going?” Johanna asked, jogging a few steps ahead of John to catch up to Camaria.
“He needed to leave,” Camaria told them. “I will meet him at home.”
“Carnivals can be pretty overwhelming,” John postulated as he approached.
“Hmmm,” Johanna mused aloud, “I wonder if he’s afraid of heights.”
In the guise of the Ride Operator, the Oracle spoke, his voice as clear as a bell in Camaria’s head though the noise played on around her. What he said sounded somewhat like a premonition.
You are such beautiful circles, darling. So many have been born from it. But sometimes one has to see an end. Sometimes one has to draw the line, to stop the ride from going round and round and round.
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Hanging in the Gallery
The Zen was not only a garden but a gallery in need of art. When Zen took in the very first painting she saw created by Camaria’s hand, she knew she was not from the Western Realm, that Camaria was the very artist needed to animate the cold walls with pieces that were actually mirrors, windows, they were doorways.

The intense mastery of Camaria’s work was obvious to Zen, would have been obvious to anyone really, yet leapt beyond skill, beyond talent, into the realm of transformation. Camaria not only told stories but also offered hope, she offered possibility.

Camaria was what those in the East called a Seer, her paintings a vehicle for her Vision, an outpicturing of what she Saw, depictions of Truth and Potential. She did not invade her muses’ privacy, her scenes did not judge, they simply connected the trinity—of subject, artist, and observer—all experiencing as if each story was their own, which naturally they were.

The pieces depicted humanity, the intrinsic drive to feel, to exist, to endure, to survive, to Love, to be Loved—she felt into their essence, into who and what they truly were. She understood, witnessed, and provided the reflection—the paintings opening The Way by asking the right questions. The artistry both contracted and expanded at the same time—containing their chaos while freeing their souls.

The truth of it frightened Zen a little because she knew the inevitability that Camaria’s Sight would one day pry her own slumbering eyes open. And she both resisted and anticipated her own demarcation, her own outing, the deepest parts of her turned inside out, reviving (stirring, awakening, enlivening, quickening) the still white canvas with colour. Zen lived in pain and bliss. She wanted to disappear but be seen. She wanted to both die and come back to life.

As Camaria filled the Zen Gallery painting by painting, as they shared tea and many hours of being, meditation, laughter and conversation, the women became Essence Friends; enduring, endearing, eternal.

And two weeks after they hung the painting of her and Wukang on the wall, Zen finally broke her silence, cracked the shell she had grown around herself that was no longer needed in the safe space they’d created together. She’d hung onto her guilt and grief for 15 long years as if an image suspended, a penance for a crime she believed she’d committed. It was Camaria’s gentle hand on Zen’s that allowed her to release her hold, and until that moment, Zen didn’t realise how very tired she was—from gripping so tightly such outmoded and painful beliefs.

Unlike a suspended image, Camaria’s paintings were not still, they were alive—the observer, the lucid dreamer, awakened within the story, realising their own hand in creating it. It was not the pain that gripped Zen, but she who gripped the pain. And all she had to do was let it go.

So her story tumbled out of her, passed through her lips, received by Camaria’s primed and patient ears.

“When I was born in the monastery that housed for a time my unwed mother, I was named for the ancient practice of Zen, for it was Zen that saved my mother from herself and from the world. This place, The Zen, was already named as such when I arrived, which was serendipitous, I suppose. I knew nothing of my father except the fact that I was a child conceived through force and not Love. Yet my mother Loved me anyway, fiercely, with a potence superseding the pain that came with my conception.

“Wukang and I met in the shop my mother had established in the village that lay at the feet of the monastery. There she and I, her only child, spent our days painting and selling the most exquisite china. Wukang was so bright, so quick, so intense. I was swept away from the moment the shop’s bell tinkled the announcement of his arrival, fell deeply in love, and even at the tender age of 16, I knew he was all I would ever want. Until two years later when Chi was born, and then I wanted the both of them.

“The war had not touched our part of the world yet, so we did what we could to disengage from what was happening in the other parts of the Realm, what was happening in The Battlefields. We stayed informed through travellers and people escaping into the womb of the monastery, but felt the best thing we could do was to provide that safe place for our son and for those who found their way to us. So, my mother and I created beauty and delicacy in the midst of the madness, and Wukang served the monks in the monastery when he was not making trips to the East.

“Ah, you looked surprised at this. Yes, Camaria, Wukang has always been a Straddler. I fear it is because of me that he never migrated to the East for good…

“We raised our son in the village at the foot of the monastery; we steeped him in the practice of Zen, we taught him The Way; we nurtured his kind heart and encouraged him to be trusting, to be just, and to help those in need—teachings that in the end led to his early and unkind death.

“We brought him up in our sanctuary but did not prepare him for the rest of this crumbling world, this world that is worse than cruel, a world that can snuff out the life of the pure and the innocent without even a thought. We did not teach him about irony or despair, anger or hate, because those were lessons I did not even learn myself until Chi was choking out blood and his last ragged breaths in my arms. The confusion in his eyes as his body released his Soul haunts me every time I close mine.

“One day when Chi was 15, a group of soldiers from The Empire’s Army was marching through our village bothering people, taking what they wanted from shops and food stands. One of the soldiers, uniform dirty and unbuttoned, drunk and agitated, was particularly cruel to the people unfortunate enough to gain his attention. Chi and I were finishing up some shopping for the day and carrying what we had bought into the store when the soldier started shouting, fighting with another soldier who was in relatively the same state.

“One moment my Chi was handing me the bag he was carrying with a small smile assuring me it was All Right, the next he was approaching the soldiers hands raised in peace, and the next he was on the ground bleeding from a knife wound in his chest, blood bubbling over his beautiful lips.

“With the new distraction, the soldiers' fighting stopped. Chi succeeded in that at least. But at what cost, Camaria? He should have let them kill each other. And these are the thoughts that weigh heavy like stones. These are not Zen thoughts.

“In my mind, I cannot stop it from playing over and over again. I cannot stop wishing I had acted instead of watching and hoping. I cannot stop wishing I had killed those men instead of letting them walk away scoffing and cold while I wailed and clutched my dying son. I cannot erase the look on Wukang’s face when I had to tell him his son was dead, or wondering what our Chi would be like now, how our lives would have been different in that village beneath the mountain and the monastery. He would have turned 25, a man now, the day you set out to Wukang’s shop in the South.

“My faith in goodness, in life, in Love, died with my son. Not even Wukang could Love me back to myself. So, I left, I wandered, I tried to die, but I was too much of a coward to do even that, and instead I found myself here. I taught my Chi to be good and kind and that the world would reflect it back. But that was not true. And he died with that question on his lips. Why, Mama? Why?

“And I didn’t have an answer.

“I lost my Chi, my Lifeforce, snuffed out like a flickering candle flame in a brief and violent blast of air, and I am not sure how to relight it or even if I want to. I will not dishonour him through forgetting, yet I am not sure how I can live on without letting him go. So, I stay. I just stop.”

As Zen spoke, at times her voice hitched, at times she wept, at times she spat the words with bitterness, at times sobs wracked her, and in the end, a sad smile lit her puffy, tear anointed face at both the memory of their son and the presence of Wukang, who she suddenly wanted very much to hold and be held by.

“He is dead, Camaria, because I told him the world was safe. I sent him to the slaughter. I taught him to be a lamb when he needed to be a tiger. I sacrificed my own son for the illusion of a better world.

“His question, why, will always be my question.”

Camaria simply listened until Zen released everything she needed to release, then finally, gently said:

“Are you ready now, Zen?”

“Yes, I believe so,” Zen answered, although she only intuited what Camaria meant by the question. “I think I understand what you are asking, but can you give me the words?”

“To See the Truth,” Camaria answered.

“Then, yes, I am ready,” Zen said, bowed her head into Camaria’s waiting paint-flecked hands, and sighed from her very being as Camaria granted her The Sight.

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Blizzard/Whiteout
When Kilo finally left for the North, the walls of his house erected with only the finishing touches left to adorn it, it was a relatively lovely morning. He had packed essential provisions for the 3-day hike—food, a sleeping roll, a cup, a knife, boot spikes—and headed to his Aunt and Uncle’s homestead. He also packed a compass. Although he knew the way well, there was every opportunity to become disoriented, especially if the weather turned the world white, which it did often and unpredictably in the wilds of the North.

Kilo had rolled up his overcoat and attached it, along with large mitts, a hat, and boot liners to his pack which hung and swung as he walked. He would need to be prepared for the cold that sat quietly waiting for him, that would quickly wrap him in its icy embrace when he reached the ranges of ice-covered rock and climbed further up the mountain.

The first two days were uneventful save for the beauty he encountered as he hiked and picked his way through the trees that laid themselves as if a carpet before the great rocks. Each day Kilo thought about Camaria, each night he thought about the house he had built and why he had built it. It would be there when he got back, he reminded himself. And although he had no right to want this, he hoped she would be, as well.

He awoke on the third morning to the chatter of woodland squirrels as they scurried and leapt through the trees while gathering their morning breakfast, and packed up one last time. He did not miss the company of people just yet as GaiaSophia was his constant and consistent companion: her Redwood, Cedar, and flower fragrance a balm, an elixir; her boughs and burrows full of busy creatures she was Kahu to; her songs a lullaby as her children lay in her leafy embrace willingly lulled into the DreamScape. She was also Kahu to Kilo, along with the winged insects, the furred mammals, the birds in the sky—he drank from her cool streams and slept in her nests as she cared for him, as she sustained and stewarded his very existence.

It got colder as he continued North, markedly so as the path became steeper, the altitude higher, the air thinner and crisper, the forest yielding to the mountainous bodies that pushed and pointed the landscape toward the sky. The wild blue turned grey with clouds, the wind picked up, the snow began to fall onto Kilo’s capped head.

It’s not far now, Kilo thought as he pulled his hat down around his ears, his coat more tightly around his body, his collar around his neck, grateful for the warmth of his new beard, I may make it before the weather hits.

But it hit swift and hard before Kilo even saw the beckoning fingers of smoke from the chimney of the cabins. He sped up his pace, hoping to fight through the quickening storm and reach the settlement before he was completely blind. It was a great effort to move through the deeper snow he stumbled into as he strayed from the path, clutching his compass, which spun and pointed. But Kilo couldn’t make out where he was going or where he had been, his prints blown over immediately after he made them. Any trace of him, every track, erased as soon as he made the mark.

GaiaSophia? GaiaSophia?

You can die. You can be swallowed. You can be recycled. At any time. But this was not a cruel Truth. It just was. It did not only demarcate death, but also life, and the desire for it. You are also alive. The lessons of a Mother are not always easy.

Squinting, shielding his eyes, he could just barely make out The Way disappearing in front of him, behind him. Ice gathered as a heavy coat of icicles on his eyebrows, on his short beard; the cold began to seep into his mitts and boots despite their thickness.

In all of the time he had spent in The Wild, Kilo had never been so exposed as to be in any real danger of dying, not even with all the exploring and journeying he had done alone or with Camaria, not even on this very path as he travelled year after year to see his family, his father. But this was winter, not spring. He was on the mountain. And GaiaSophia turned a season. He had never been afraid for his life before, until that very moment.

Resisting panic, Kilo dropped to his knees, bent forward, and pulled his great hood tighter to wait it out, to surrender, to give up, to pray, perhaps. Head down, he curled over himself—no time to find shelter, no choice but to be out in the elements, to make a cave of himself. He knew he would be warm enough in his clothes if he kept his face out of the wind, if he stopped expending his energy fighting, afraid and panicked, what could not be fought—because if he did not, he would certainly be lost. So, the yielding was complete and kept him warm enough.

Simultaneously and somewhat counter to his thoughts of survival, Kilo had another thought:

If I die, well…I die.

And it was then that he remembered to breathe.

So, he let the snow gather around him, to cover his back creating a kind of cocoon, a shelter out of the very snow that whipped his face when he turned into it bare and unshielded. That snow became his shelter, his insulation, his den, and he burrowed deeper into it—for hours, for days, he could not tell, and everything but the present moment ceased to exist, even his own future.

Just as his resistance shattered and he began to succumb to the snow, to give himself entirely to the icy depths, released from Time and Space, the acceptance of death and the desire for life dancing together in the Bardo, the furious flurries started to settle. At first slowly, the wind calmed, the air brightened, enough for Kilo to raise his head and take note of the trees, the landscape, the mountains before him reforming themselves through the white mist as the vision cleared.

And the aftermath. The aftermath of the blizzard was nothing short of glorious. The Sun kissed his windburned cheek, simultaneously creating sensations of both pain and delight, and despite the cold that bit at his fingers and toes, his trunk and brow under his hat were sweaty.

Flooded with relief for the storm’s relenting, Kilo uncurled himself and fell onto his back, stretched his arms and legs to fully take in the Sun which was encircled by a sundog chasing its tail creating its rainbow halo. He closed his eyes to feel the rays on his face, melting away the tension, the panic, the fear. The few remaining snowflakes meandered, shimmered in the air, landed on his skin as tiny, delicate frost kisses that melted and slid as if they were tears.

A woodland squirrel scurried close to Kilo and watched him as Kilo watched the sky, both squirrel and man breathing. Kilo turned his head to watch it right back and marvelled at how such a small creature was utterly unaffected by the storm—how it simply popped from its shelter at the first sign of safety. And of all things, he laughed.

From where he was lying, Kilo looked beyond the squirrel and spied the clearing in the valley ahead. It was not far at all, a mere half mile down the other side of the slope he had crested when the storm hit. And to think he could have died that close to Home simply because he couldn’t see, because he forgot to breathe, because he wasn’t patient enough for the thaw. But he had, indeed, arrived.

Cold Mountain.

Kilo got up to carry on, leaving the impression of his body in the snow, his snow angel, behind—the wind already moving the briefly resting snowflakes, enacting his erasure, working away at the edges.
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Blasted from the Shell
The nation falls into ruins, the rivers and mountains continue.
-Janus, The Poet of the Mountain
Over and over again, the blasting, blasted blasts. It had quieted with Time, yes, and thank the stars, yes, but it had not stopped. It had not stopped, in fact it was worse, louder…Oberon had become jumpy as a fresh green draftee, repeatedly startled as a helpless babe—the bomb flashes, the hollers of his squad, then the stillness as his hearing was replaced by a great ringing over which even his own hollers could not be heard.
And he woke and woke again, forever waking from this nightmare that would not stop resurfacing, an ugly, oily bubble in the wet, muddy earth beneath the soldier's sodden boot. And Oberon sank, drowning over and over in the murk of its waters.
Pulling himself to the surface with one great breath, he loosed: “What the fuuuuuck?!” one foot yet in a dark foxhole of the DreamScape, waking both cabins from the sonic boom that rocked all in the settlement from their slumber. “I can’t live like this!”
The men were ready and moving; when Kai opened his door, Amara was already at his cabin to be with Lila so her father could go.
“He needs the men,” she said to him.
“Yes,” Kai replied as he gave her a quick touch on her shoulder as thank you and rushed to join them in the clearing before the mountain, Oberon already having expelled himself from the longhouse and into the air of the night.
“Hushhhh,” Hoku soothed, hand on Oberon’s back who was on his knees in the grass, the first on the scene as he had been those years ago when he’d found Oberon wandering and disoriented.
Over the 3 years, it had been easier and easier for Hoku to pull Oberon back into their current reality, but this time it was almost as difficult to calm him as the day he’d been the midwife to Oberon’s rebirth. The Ice Man, Kai, and Kilo reached them, and The Ice Man dropped to his knees before the soldier, pulling him by the shoulders to sit up and look into his eyes.
“Oberon! Look at me!” The Ice Man commanded, and the world swung, corrected itself, coming into cool clarity, gaining the space of attention where Oberon remembered that he could breathe.
“The nightmares, they will not stop,” Hoku said, concern tightening his gentle face. “They plague him. They have been coming through even during the day now, the tripwires being sudden sounds, smells, people that trigger his past to replay.”
“This is why you have come,” Kai stated from where he and the other men crouched beside Oberon who was on his knees in the grass.
“Yes,” Hoku confirmed.
“Nightmares are incomplete dreams,” Kilo said, so gently, yet penetrating the shell of Oberon’s terror as the ringing quieted and the voices of the men began to come through.
“He hears echoes,” Kai said.
“His story is not complete,” Kilo added, “there is something, someone, who has not been given Voice.”
“He needs silence first, for him to hear it,” Kai said.
“Yes,” The Ice Man agreed.
“How?” Hoku asked, his usual composure slightly overcome with concern, with hope. “Where?”
The Zero.
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Homeing
With the rising Sun, Kai stood on the Northern cliff of The Roost drawing in one last breath of the place. The activity was somewhat different than the day before as Furkan’s group was practising on their own, and all three of Lyra and Furkan’s children were visiting GrandMother Eagle while their parents readied their Great Hawk companions for this morning’s flight. They were to escort Kai Home, and though he knew the Way, he appreciated the companionship as well as the chance to fly in his Raven form alongside his Friends and the great beasts. It was not lost on him how their guidance was not unlike his own purpose: Lyra and Furkan assisting him to navigate the winds of the physical world; Kai’s destiny to assist those feeling lost in the Liminal between this World and the SpiritRealm. All three being weatherveins pointing toward Home.
Kai turned as he heard Furkan and Lyra emerge from the Aviatory (make up name for this place) dressed in ___ (colour??) flying clothes. They were closely followed by two Great Hawks having been permitted to place saddles on their backs to secure each Rider for the flight. Kai had previously met ____, and Furkan took a moment to introduce the second hawk as _____. He was as majestic as his female counterpart and a bit larger, broader in the chest. It was almost too much for Kai, the awe that came over him in their presence, so instead of words, he shifted into his Raven form, his own final act of readying for his homecoming.
Lyra and Furkan, even the great beasts, watched in wonderment as he shifted, at the grace and ease of his shifting. Kai felt their emotions through something more encompassing than a Thread, and was a bit surprised that his own humble Being could instigate such feelings in ones so majestic. Then Lyra placed Kai’s clothing into the woven basket attached to the back of her saddle, and she and Furkan mounted the beasts with weightless agility and adjusted their goggles.
Without words, all three birds launched into the air, Kai feeling tiny beside the great beasts, yet somehow precise. And it was not difficult to fill such a small body with joy.
“Kai, you are beautiful,” Lyra exclaimed laughing, as they flew headlong into the morning sky. Kai heard her without the need for his ears, and Furkan’s smile grew wider in agreement. Then sensing his humility, his smallness beside the beasts, she added: “if not for you, there would be nothing for the Great Flyers to see.”
As they flew, the words of the previous night’s conversation resounded through Kai’s memories… “It is not enough to live amongst Souls, your creaturehood requires other creatures of flesh and blood and bone,” The Voice/GrandMother Eagle had said. “You as a shapeshifter must know that we never die, we only change into another form.” And Kai had known that unless he could See this for himself, that those words would always be a comfort but never a comfort, an answer that sounded more like a riddle.
“You know this, you simply had to live it, to speak your story into the world.” So he was grateful, so very grateful that he now could see with Cosmic Vision, that he had died to live. Once he did not fear his own death, embraced it, his real work began; his purpose to guide those who could not yet find their Home, whether it be in this world or another, was unfurling with every flap of his own wings, released from the plagues of regret, prediction, and prophecy.
SoulUsher. WorldWeaver. The Wind whispered/shivered through him as he flew faster and faster toward Cold Mountain.
Let it be so.
“Am I late?” Kai exclaimed after they’d landed, he’d quickly dressed, and breathing hard burst through the front door of The Ice Man and Amara’s cabin. Amara was nowhere in sight, but The Ice Man smiled, rose from his place by the fire, and placed Lila in her Father’s arms.
“Son, you are right on time.”
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On the Edge 1
While Kage met with the Viper, Camaria and Zen went on their own excursion; a rare event for Zen, to exit The Garden for any reason. At the end of their hike to Bardo Canyon, they dangled their feet over the edge. No one patrolled this area since everyone knew that crossing the Bardo was impossible. Not if you wanted to return alive.

“Can you not see it?” Camaria asked.

And Zen said, “oh yes.”

“Is it not beautiful?”

“Yes. The most beautiful place I have ever seen.”

“Why do you not want to go over?”

“Because I do not deserve to. Because I did not know The Way when he needed me to show him. Because I might forget him. My Chi.”

“But the Eastern Realm is a place of remembering.”

“Perhaps then, I do not want to remember.”
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Pandora’s Gifts
“Come in, girl,” Pandora invited from within the dark cabin. Her voice filled the space, everywhere and nowhere at once, so it was difficult for Camaria to follow it to the Oracle she’d come to see, to orient herself in this dark room, since there was little light to guide her.

She tentatively pushed the door open, which let out a long creek, and the first thing she noticed was that the cabin smelled of soot and flames. It sent her head spinning just a bit when it hit her, flooding her senses. It was, she thought, strangely delicious.

“Do not act shy, because we both know you are not,” Pandora continued in the disembodied, OtherWorldly voice. So, Camaria stepped fully into the small room. Once inside, eyes adjusting, she could see much more clearly, but still could only make out shadows of what might be there.

“Let us not draw this out,” Pandora said casually, almost gently. Camaria was able to make out the form of a woman standing on the other side of a simple wooden table that stood between them, two palm sized boxes on its top.

“Choose one,” Pandora said as she gestured with her hands that were illuminated in the shadows.

The box to which Pandora gestured with a graceful wave of her hand felt to Camaria to be familiar. Crafted in the style her uncles used, the word “Love” carefully carved into its lid. It was beautiful with a promise of wonder and delight if only she would open it.

The other, the box to which Pandora gestured with the back of her hand, was curious, strange, made of an ancient-looking rotting wood that had fallen away in places, the hinge crooked, the writing on the lid in a language unknown to her.

Immediately she chose.

“This one,” she said, pointing to the ancient second box.

“Very well,” Pandora said, sounding neither surprised nor approving. “Open it.”

“What does it say, on the lid, I mean?” Camaria asked, as she approached the table, lifted the box, and peered at it closely.

“Suffering,” Pandora answered.

“Oh, I see,” Camaria said, and without hesitation, opened it anyway.

At one moment Camaria was in Pandora’s cabin, the next they were both standing outside on what felt to be the edge of the world. Transported to The Bardo, the liminal space between life and death.

“You seek Wisdom,” Pandora said matter-of-factly, as she stood on the lip of Bardo Canyon. Although their conversation continued, Camaria was behind her and could only see her back, the gentle flapping of her loose flowing pants and shirt, her full, silver hair billowing away from her face. Pandora did not take her eyes off of the canyon before them.

“Yes,” Camaria answered Pandora’s back.

“Not Knowledge? Not Self? Not even The Truth?”

“Wisdom sounds right.”

“That is sometimes the hardest journey to take.”

“I am ready.”

“No one is ever ready.”

“I suppose not. But I am not afraid,” Camaria said, moving the few steps to stand with Pandora on The Edge.

“That is evident.”

“I do not brag,” Camaria said and looked at Pandora, marking the shimmering outline of the side of her face.

“You do not strike me as a braggart,” Pandora replied, turning her face to quell Camaria’s inquisition with her eyes that were such a crystal light blue that they were virtually opaque. Satisfied with their understanding of each other, they both looked back toward the West.

From their bird’s-eye-view, they could see the expanse of Bardo Canyon for miles in all directions, the North, the South, the Depth below them that plunged into trees, bushes, bodies of water that filled its base. They faced the West, the border that cut through the other side of the canyon, where the rolling, green topography was abruptly dampened by a heavy grey gauze. Beyond, the cityscape tried to twinkle but only pulsed in an attempt to sustain its sickly glow.

“We are always alone, but never alone,” Pandora said.

“What does that mean?” Camaria asked, no edge or challenge in her voice, only inquiry, although she thought she already innerstood.

“It is not a riddle. It is not my intent to confuse you,” Pandora replied without taking her eyes off of the expanse before them.

“I know this,” Camaria asserted.

“It is a Truth,” Pandora stated. “The box you have opened is full of gifts,” she went on as the two of them continued to study the landscape.

“I can feel all the people there. Something calls. Something dark. Someone…” Camaria trailed off.

“Mmmm,” Pandora intoned, listening.

“It is sad. It is lonely. It is beautiful,” Camaria stated, then repeated, “I am ready.”
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Good Mornings
The Breakfast House was already abuzz with people cooking, serving, and chatting over warm morning beverages when Camaria and her mother Kalea sat down with Kalea’s four older brothers, Camaria’s Uncles, at an outside table under the rooftop overhang, the glass doors that lined the entire eastern wall of the square wooden building thrown open widely to the glory of the day. People sat, mingled, and stood both inside and out. The heady, rich smell of boiling roots, barks, herbs, and mycelium floated from the Breakfast House Kitchen beckoning the people of the settlement from their DreamScapes, rousting them for the day’s mysterious purpose.

The morning was cool yet sunny, as were/are most mornings in Veil’s Edge, with the last drops of dew trembling on the foliage that both lined and adorned the gravel roads, the yards, and the in-between spaces of the settlement. During these first hours after sunrise, the sun’s heat gently built, the dew fell to the earth quenching her thirst, filling the water table and the wells for drinking and for washing, or gave itself to the vast sky, releasing as a bouquet of aromas the intelligence the leaves imprinted into each and every molecule.

Most of the time Kalea had her breakfast at home alone with Anahata, her Beloved and Camaria’s father, but today, since Anahata was off to meet the day before Kalea even cracked an eyelid, she’d decided to come with her daughter for some good company. And her brothers never disappointed them in this regard—in any regard, for that matter.

Kalea looked around at the four large men who crowded around the table they shared:

Alexander: tall and lanky, shaggy silver-streaked brown hair chopped just above his shoulders, yet clean-shaven, the only one of them with their mother’s silver eyes, hands of a scholar rather than those of carpenters two of his younger brothers had;

Adonis: tall, broad, and muscular, beautiful clean-shaven face, amused expression like he’s always up to something, long, dark hair braided down his back, only a few streaks of silver to hint at his age;

Hector: broad and tall but shorter than Adonis, salt and pepper beard framing his full mouth, silver hair loose to the bottom of his shoulder blades;

And Duke, the youngest of Kalea’s brothers, silver-streaked brown hair pulled back into a loose knot at the back of his head, bearded contemplative face, large hands cracked and stained with the dirt they spent most days in.

Almost all of them looked at Kalea as she laughed out loud with the delight of simply taking them all in.

“What, Kalea?” Adonis boomed, laughing along with her.

“She’s doing it, again,” Hector ventured.

“Always laughing,” Alexander murmured without taking his eyes off of the book he was scribbling in.

“I just love you all so much. It doesn’t matter how old we get or how often I see you, I just marvel at how glorious you all are,” Kalea said as she made her rounds, bending her tall, wiry frame to kiss each of her brothers on the tops of their heads in greeting.

“We are glorious,” Duke stated, neither in jest nor with arrogance, either, head slightly bowed, brow knitted as he peered up at Kalea and received his kiss. He spoke in earnest, which provoked a burst of laughter from Kalea, Adonis, and Hector. Alexander smiled but still didn’t look up.

“And we love you, too,” Adonis boomed through his smile, raising his muscled mass to return his sister’s greeting with a mighty hug.

Camaria greeted the men with a smile and quick hugs as she and her mother sat, then simply watched and listened to her mother banter with her uncles.

By the time they were half-way through their teas and coffees, Kalea spotted Anahata coming down the gravel road toward the Breakfast House with a babe swaddled to his chest grasping for his silver braid. Kalea delighted in the vision of him coming toward them, his short and sturdy stature, her Bear, her Heart flowering in response to his nearing presence. When Anahata spotted them at the table under the canopy, his already smiling face broke into an even wider smile that reached every part of his whole weather-kissed face, the beauty of his laugh lines deepening, his green eyes twinkling with the deepest warmth of Love.

“Whose baby is that, Anee?” Kalea asked Anahata when he reached them, playfully eying him as he approached struggling with the wriggling baby who was now pinching his cheeks, his nose.

Laughing and gently lowering the baby’s hand from his face with his large hands, Anahata turned so Kalea could see her face. “This, my Beloved, is Sunny, Erris’ grand baby.”

“Yes, Love, I see her now. And why is this little cherub in your care this morning? Is this why I woke up with only the ghost of a kiss on my cheek?”

“Ahhh, Kalea, I did tell you last night that…” Anahata began, sobering a little, then noticed Kalea’s expression and smiled. “Come then, get your kisses,” and Kalea stood and did just that, bending slightly to meet Anahata’s lips, having to stop for a few seconds afterward to untangle Sunny’s chubby hand from her long silver braid.

“Her parents are helping with the planting this morning. They are already in the field to get a good start on the day,” Anahata explained to Kalea, Camaria, and the brothers as he and Kalea sat down.

“Always, Brother, a babe on your chest or a child at your heel,” Adonis greeted as his smile got even bigger on his beautiful, tanned face. The rest of the brothers grunted, murmured, and smiled in agreement.

“Ah yes, and how are you little angel?” Kalea said to Sunny as Anahata unwrapped her from the sling and sat her on his lap. Sunny smiled a wide, one-toothed grin in response, and a stream of drool escaped her bottom lip.

“Well, aren't you just the happiest little thing?” Kalea exclaimed. “I’ll go get you some breakfast, and you too Anee, my Love,” she added as she looked at Anahata who nodded, looking happy but in need of a sit down and some nourishment.

She handed him her soft lavender handkerchief which he used to wipe his brow before she disappeared into the building to seek out what heavenly aromas were wafting from the open doorway.

Thank you, Beloved, Anahata sent down their thread.

—-------------

The brothers’ conversation was full of jokes, and seriousness, and healthy doses of hearty laughter.

Kalea interrupted their discussion bearing two platters of food for all of them to share. Mariposa, Camaria’s 10-year-old GrandDaughter, and Kalea and Anahata’s GreatGrandDaughter, trailed behind her with plates, napkins, and utensils.

“GrandMama!” Mariposa exclaimed when she saw Camaria. She unloaded her burdens and was settled in her grandmother’s lap for a quiet embrace in almost an instant.

“Ah, the joy of sharing conversation and presence over fresh muffins, sliced fruit, and bowls of raspberries. Thank you, Lovelies,” Adonis exclaimed.

“Yes, thank you,” Alexander echoed as Kalea placed the platters on the table before them, the only time his eyes flicked up to meet anyone else’s, then returning to what he was busy writing in his book. Anahata gave Sunny a spoon as Kalea presented mashed banana before her, and the baby set about the task of feeding herself, at least half of it reaching her mouth.

“You are helping in the kitchen today, Posey?” Adonis inquired.

“Yes, GGUncle,” Mariposa replied, as she stood back up and pushed up her large, round glasses that were beginning to slide down her nose.

“The Greatest of Uncles!” Adonis corrected in jest.

“The Greatest of Uncles,” Mariposa echoed, her sea-green set of owl eyes blinking, silky spun-gold hair framing her apple face.

“What calls your attention today?” Hector asked, watching her move back and forth from one foot to the other.

“It’s Maximus and Bear’s 10-Plus-a-Little Unbirthday today!” Mariposa declared. ”After I study the dinosaurs with GreatUncle Duke this morning,” she glanced at Duke, “Maximus, Bear, and I are going to meet in the field beside the kennels for a celebration picnic. Papa said he would make it and bring it for us since we will be too busy this morning to make it ourselves, and Mama is busy with Auntie Cressida since the baby is coming soon.

Mariposa turned her attention to Duke. “We have invited some of our woodland friends, GreatUncle Duke, and I do hope they come.”

“Do you know about dinosaurs?” Mariposa asked Hector. “GreatUncle Duke seems to know a great deal about them. They are catching my fancy as of late.”

“I know a little, yes,” Hector answered, genuinely intrigued. “Perhaps you can tell me more one day since my brother has not shared this information with me,” he eyed Duke who simply looked back.

“You have not asked,” Duke said plainly.

“Ha! I suppose I have not,” Hector exclaimed as he began to put food on his plate.

“I will tell you all I can,” Mariposa promised. “As soon as I find out more, though,” she mused and looked back to Duke whose plate was still empty as he partook in the conversation.

As if right on cue, their conversation was interrupted once again with the sound of many feet on the gravel road. Before anyone could brace themselves, Molina and Enso’s twins, Maximus and Bear, came scampering between two houses across the way with three large and clumsy pups, Puck, Jing, and black and gold Attila The Destroyer, happily running along, jumping in front, in back, and through their feet. It was a miracle no one tripped and fell.

It was hard to tell where the sounds the boys made and the sounds the dogs made ended and began. They were a cloud of destruction. Their yipping, wagging, and panting group was stopped mere feet from the entry to the Breakfast House when Kalea rose from the table.

“Uh uh, where do you think you’re going, Little Wildlings?” Kalea demanded. “There are to be no pups in the Breakfast House.”

“We are thirsty, GG Kalea,” Maximus panted.

“So thirsty,” Bear said, wiping sweat, dirt, and his tousled brown bangs from his forehead with his hand. Bear was shirtless as he usually was in the spring, summer, and fall, and Maximus wore a light button up shirt that was so tattered that he might as well have been shirtless, as well. Maximus towered over his twin by at least 4 inches and pulled his deep auburn hair back like his father’s, but oh, those deep dark eyes both boys shared wrought a laugh from their GG Kalea.

“I will get you and the pups some water. But do not bring them inside,” she sternly but playfully warned.

“Yes, GG Kalea,” the boys said in unison.

When Kalea returned, the group was chatting by the table, breakfasts in varying stages of being eaten. Mariposa was crouched petting Jing who sat beside her, golden tail thumping, their Grandma Camaria listening and enjoying as her grandchildren planned their picnic. Anahata held little Sunny close enough to touch Puck’s back, every so often untangling her baby grabbers from the dog’s black fur. Even Alexander had stopped his writing, fending off Attila the Destroyer's wet dog kisses.

Kalea set the tray on the table, and the boys gave the pups their water bowls before they took their glasses and guzzled the cool contents.

“Thank you GG Kalea,” Maximus said.

“The pups thank you, as well,” added Bear.

“You are all very welcome,” Kalea said to the boys and kissed them each on the tops of their wild-smelling heads. “Oh my, you boys have been spending a lot of time in the kennels since those pups were born!”

“Yes, GG Kalea,” Bear piped up, “and there is a new foal, too. Zephyr’s had her baby,” which started a new round of conversation around the goings-on at the East Barn where the boys helped out the most.

Having had a chance to calm down from their made-up task of Running with the Dogs, the boys said their good-byes and began to head back to the kennels. Seeing Mariposa’s expression as she watched them walk away, Duke suggested she walk the boys back to the barn.

“I will meet you later on, Mariposa. Take your time. I am not in a hurry,” he assured her. “Come find me at the Lodge.”

As Duke watched Mariposa run to catch up to her cousins, almost as clumsily as the three pups, while pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, he noted the moment when Bear grabbed his brother’s hand—the way they had always walked since they were wee ones, the way they walked even now as growing boys of 10—it made him think of Adonis and Hector, always together, always so casual, shoulder to shoulder, planning the next things they were going to build, never thinking anything of it.

When Mariposa reached them, the twins instantly broke apart to let her into the middle, each boy picking up one of her hands. The dogs barked, the baby squealed, the children laughed and skipped down the road.

—----------------

Kalea’s brothers dispersed to their respective activities for the day; Hector and Adonis to a new build for a family just relocating from Memphis, and Alexander returning to his home and his books.

Duke headed South to meet Coyote and Oberon at the Lodge where they were working with a group of bewildered Newcomers who were just getting their bearings in the settlement.

Camaria followed the musical sounds East to her son, Coda’s, Music Workshop, where they had a day of mother-son time planned—Kilo already miles away on his trek North to escort his Uncle, The Ice Man, and cousin, Lila, the rest of the way back to the settlement for their visit.

At the centre was Kalea, who headed to the Workshop to meet Arcturus and their young, dedicated student, Bodhi. Arcturus was heading West to meet Kalea at the Workshop. Although he and his Beloved, Cressida, Kalea’s granddaughter, had left each other only 20 minutes before, he checked in with her through their thread. She was due to give birth at any moment, so he was content to learn that she was already with her sister, Indigo, Mariposa’s mother, at her home on the river sorting out a few details for the baby’s arrival.

Molina, the twins’ mother and Camaria's first born, dug into her garden with she and Enso's eldest son, Aquilla; and Poppy, the youngest of Camaria's daughters, headed toward Honey and her bees.

Later that afternoon, having returned little Sunny to her parents, Anahata heard the concern come from all directions—little Fleetfood had escaped to the forest, again. So, he said his farewells to Hoku, John, and the group they were leading, and slipped out the door of the Healing House with Kalea’s words at his back:

Anee, Love, I’ll get him. Peace. All is All-Right.
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Punching Holes in the Sky
Cressida crept to the top of the stairs as she did most nights when nudged awake to contemplate the wild world/universe of her Dreams. The stories they played out rarely felt unpleasant to her—not being the cauldron of nightmares that plagued her father—hers often being curious, fantastical. Sometimes the creatures she dreamed of/up smiled glossy white teeth, and some of them bore fangs. But Cressida did not fear fangs, in fact, she quite enjoyed them—the way they dripped with the saliva of a snapping beast, powerful and sovereign.
They were quite exciting, really, the creatures, and they were, in fact, her faithful companions—the spectres, the witches, and dragons, the blue-skinned beings from the OtherWorlds. So when she wandered down the hall as quiet as a spectre herself, she was not often found out until she’d been on the stairs listening for quite some time and there was some kind of pause in the adults’ conversation.
Her parents and grandparents were having a quiet evening visiting over tea in the greatroom before the fire, each couple cozied up, taking up opposite ends of the couch.
They were deep in conversation, marvelling at the boundlessness of children's minds, concerned about the children in this Realm and how they were regretfully neglected or so mercilessly extinguished. They tried to make sense of it, the starvation and the brutality, but they could not.
“The mother, the one who brings her children to The Zen to be in presence," Camaria said, “they are the fortunate ones. They have found solace and a sanctuary and their lives in the city are All Right because of it.”
“The city is a difficult place to visit,” Camaria went on, her expression saddening. “I see what our girls receive and what most of the children in the Realm do not.” Kalea and Anahata did not attempt to console her with instructions, what ifs, and possibilities, for they knew that grief was not a problem to be solved. Kage simply sat close with his arm around her as she spoke and listened.
“Even delicate babes experience violence, and I cannot help but be shocked each time I witness a child wanting for one simple hug…Sinead’s Arek,” she added, “he has been hurt, I know, but his mother’s Heart is as delicate as her son’s, so I wait for her to open to me because then perhaps I can do more.”
The four of them then quieted their conversation as they sensed the babe as she padded to her nightly perch.
“Come, little one,” Anahata invited when Cressida accidentally coughed, giving herself away—though she didn’t know that they’d already felt her presence there for some moments now.
After descending the stairs and snuggling in with Anahata and Kalea, Anahata asked Cressida what had her up at such an hour when little girls should be dreaming. Cressida sat upright to tell her GrandPapa that it was those very Dreams that woke her.
“You were dreaming?” he asked. “About what?”
And Cressida explained as best she could the world she’d dreamed up outside of that one. In the Dream she’d been playing with her sisters and Arek, tagging each other in the grasses behind Johanna’s house, The Four Winds off munching grass in the distance, when a big, scowling man came out from the trees. The girls watched the man, but Arek ran, and the man ran after him…and then, and then…there was this big black dragon and Cressida was riding it and she and the dragon chased the man who was chasing Arek, and Arek was also on a dragon, a purple water dragon, and instead of crying he was laughing and laughing and laughing, and the Sun made his pretty hair glow more brightly around his head…and then the man got smaller and smaller because he was on the ground and they were flying up up up until they could not see him anymore…
“And so, GrandPapa, you know what I did to release the dragons, what I did so that Arek could smile?”
“What, Cressida? What did you do?!” Anahata asked, not feigning his interest in her answer.
“I (just) punched a hole in the sky!” Cressida exclaimed, and as she made the exclamation, the incantation, the world shattered around them, and all in the room—Kalea, Anahata, Camaria, even Kage, who had never in all his life had such a surreal/suprareal experience, not even when Camaria taught him how to MindLink— were pulled into her Dream. And the dreams of a child, Kage found, had a quality unlike anything he thought could exist, the freedom to create and to fly—and the prospect of falling did not scare him but liberated as they all swooped and dove on the backs of their dragons. And when they landed, laid softly onto the pillows of the couch, there was a moment of bliss then giggles, first from Kalea and Cressida, then the other three adults joining in.
“Again, again!” Anahata exclaimed.
“Again, again!” the other three echoed. And little Cressida giggled some more, delighting in the joy she’d brought her Loved Ones and in the hugs and kisses they showered upon her before they finally tucked her back into bed.
And they knew that it would be the babes themselves who could save this world or punch holes in its skies for the dawn of another.
“Punching holes in the sky, she said,” Anahata quoted, shaking his head with marvel.
“How marvelous,” Kalea said, clasping her hands together.
“So you can see outside of what contains you,” Anahata said.
“The container you have outgrown,” Camaria finished.
Kage’s mind went to work piecing together the meaning in such an act. Punching holes in an argument, a belief, a conviction, and in Cressida’s case, a reality. Kage caught a glimmer of what Camaria meant all those times when she’d referred to this Realm as being inside. He had always puzzled over his follow-up question: inside of what? There was more on the outside, the other side? And if this was a container, then there must be a ceiling, and surely that ceiling could be broken.
And that night, instead of demons and bloody, dying fighters and soldiers who cursed him for their deaths, Kage dreamed of riding dragons.
—-----------
The next day, as if it were another one of Cressida’s Dreams, Kalea and Anahata evanesced, washed away with the good-bye tears they shed, swept with the kisses they blew, their rucksacks overstuffed with their GrandDaughters’ drawings, their sculptures, their medicines, and their rolled up canvases.
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The Sculpting Hand of Conflict
“Camaria! Where have you been?” Kage bellowed as she stepped into the apartment and closed the door.

“Kage, I’m fine! I’m a bit late for lunch, but…”

“You went into the Downtown District?”

“Kage, I went to find The Zen, and…”

“Are you crazy?! You could have been hurt, or killed! Have you heard the latest news?”

“What news, Kage?” But he cut her off, switching on the radio.

The Broadcast crackled to life with the familiar male voice fortified with cool Authority:

Lawlessness is rampant in the streets of Slumber City. The Enforcers have had to crack down on the demonstrations in the streets of the Industrial District. Citizens, do not resist, resistance will not be tolerated. Resistance interferes with Law that keeps you safe. Resistors will be incarcerated and charged with treason. Do your duty and obey, and you will be safe. Citizens travelling through the city without Papers will be detained. No one will be permitted to leave the borders of the city until order has been restored. The distribution of Rations and Provisions will cease until order has been restored.

Camaria had not been tuned into the fringe districts during her tea with Zen. She witnessed no unrest as she walked through the streets back to The Apartment. It was simply life as usual in the core of the city. The reported threat was not palpable there though she was open to receiving, which meant that she may have been just ahead of the news that catalysed and spread through the airwaves and through the Æther.

As Kage watched her, eyes still ablaze, Camaria closed her own eyes and tuned in. And it was there. Yes, indeed. The panic. The mistrust. The rage. Rapidly growing, spreading, nearing a fever pitch. And her head flung back as it crashed into her like a wave.

“Camaria, are you ok? Does it hurt you?” Kage asked, catching, pulling her close to steady her slackening body, his expression instantly softening into concern.

“It is a wave, Kage. I can ride it,” she said, eyes still closed.

Camaria could sense into the people; she could even see their history, their memories, every detail if she wanted to. Her Seeing did not come as a flashing of images or a blow by blow retelling but a fully formed Knowing—about the people, the place, the events unfolding as Camaria and Kage stood suspended in The Apartment—and the Truth of everything in relation to it. Although the Ocean of Truth was available to her, Camaria paced herself, bobbed on the surface, and took small sips of the details.

Camaria saw The Empire and their Enforcers subduing and withholding and felt further into their intent, which was not to protect. They forced and throttled yet allowed the city to implode, being the very match that lit the fuse, the people themselves taking care of the dirty work for them, distracted by the imagined threat, fighting each other intoxicated by the red haze of the primal instinct for survival. The panic fueled their deeds, each other the targets of their mistrust and rage, deflected from the true source.

Oh, and the painful disconnect. That wave sent Camaria reeling and Kage clutching to her tighter to keep her upright careful with her swelling belly. The Broadcast spoke about borders, a grave and tragic fallacy, for there were no borders on GaiaSophia. She was one being, one organism, each Human a neuron in her network. And the people were misled, they could not understand. So, they tore themselves apart and suffered.

Loud shouting jolted Camaria from her Insights. In moments she was righted, and the two of them moved to the window to take in the scene. A man of about 40 was being cornered in the alley by a larger man who was attempting to rip a loaf of bread from his hands.

“Please, no. It’s all we have,” the man with the bread said.

“Give it up!” the other, larger man demanded. “Give it up! I haven’t eaten in three days and there isn’t more coming!” he seethed, red-rimmed eyes flashing with violence.

“Please! It’s all we have,” the man begged, and despite the size difference between them, the smaller man hung on as they wrestled with the bread, yanking and twisting.

“Please. It’s not yours, but I’ll share…” but his pleading was cut short as the larger man hit him on the side of the head with an object he had hidden in his hand. The blow set the smaller man crumpling to the pavement in a heap, blood flowing freely from the gash. The larger man dropped the rock beside his body before he fled, not caring that his spoils bore a splash of the man’s blood.

Camaria and Kage burst into action and ran toward the door.

“Camaria, stay here!” Kage ordered, and Camaria ignored the order, following him down the front steps and around the corner into the alley as he continued to yell over his shoulder, “stay inside. Go back up!”

Kage fell to his knees when he reached the man. He tried to staunch the blood with his hands, pulling the edge of his shirt to help with the effort, but Camaria could see that it was already too late. His glistening Soul was untethered, already taking flight. By the look in his eyes as he tried to help the man, it was obvious that this was not Kage’s first time seeing a violent death. It was, however, Camaria’s.

Kage turned his face to look up at her, blood on his shirt, on his hands, face tight with pain wrought from futility.

“Camaria?” he asked, the answer he sought not yet fully formed into a question he could verbalise. Can you fix him?

He has already left this body, Kage, Camaria intoned but not without regret.

She knelt beside them, and with a gentle hand placed on his arm, granted Kage The Sight so he could witness the light of the man’s eternal and enduring Soul shimmering above them. Kage looked up in wonder, lips slightly parted, with a look of youth and innocence Camaria had never witnessed in him before, as the sight of the man’s release untied the knotted pain in Kage’s heart. And aloud Camaria said the Untethering Words of her people as Kage’s eyes gently closed for his fully present participation:

May your feet be light
May your Soul take flight
Untethered and Unbound
Be Fee, be free, be free.

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In the Dark
Poppy was restless in the bed between her parents that night, tossing and twisting in the winds of her dreams. Camaria and Kage had soothed her with coos and touches when their daughter intermittently woke with a cry or a whimper, but after minutes, hours, of the dozing and the waking, Camaria finally left the warmth of the bed and Kage sleeping in it to nurse and settle in a more comfortable position.
“Do you need me?” Kage’d whispered, not quite awake.
“No, Love, go back to sleep,” Camaria assured him, Kage already breathing heavily in slumber before the last word passed her lips.
Camaria lit a candle and carried it and little Poppy, sleepy and resting her head on her Mama’s shoulder, small hands gripping her Mama’s nightshift, down to the great room to get them settled and gently rocking in the cedarwood chair built for that purpose. Before she sat, careful not to jostle Poppy too much, Camaria had pulled the chair close to the cabinet that held the radio, realizing that according to the clock it was nearly 12:12. She knew how to unblock the signal and did so deftly with one hand as the other held her suckling toddler who was already drifting back into her dreams.
There was some crackling as Camaria tuned in, then the signal became clear, and the voice that came through it was warm, lush, exquisite as liquid summer honey.
“Nothing is real,” she began. “Nothing is true,” she stated, her dialect accented, “r”s coming from the back of the throat and the lips, the bare, intimate tone of her voice filling every pore. The statement could have been harsh, final, off-putting, yet somehow it evoked intrigue, a desire in the receiver to hear more, to feel more.
“This realm is one built on illusions and trickery, we as the puppets while The Empire pulls our strings. We are pawns in the dramas The Empire makes up. We are pitted against each other to fight for scraps like starving dogs. What we believe to be real is a game. It is a fantasy, a world of make believe, lies, superstition to disguise the magic.
“I have to admit, I believe there is a new world somewhere, one where we suffer less, one where we do not have to fight the puppetmasters, but I am no romantic. I see the death, the killing, the disease, the pain of the people—this I cannot deny. And though I see the cage we are in for what it is, I too am imprisoned within it. And I must fight from where I broadcast in the shadows, not hiding but concealed on the black side of the moon, we must fight, to be free.”
Swept into the dark illumination of Phoenix’s musings, Camaria found herself in agreement at some degree, Phoenix’s truth, yet Camaria Understood that this was not where the sentence could end, how the lock to the cage could be opened. Nothing is Real unless you Make Believe; nothing Matters unless you Make it Matter; and Truth is always True, yet what might be true for one is seldom the Whole of It rendering it an unTruth.
And just as Camaria came to the tail of these thoughts, the clouds covered the Moon darkening the room as Phoenix signed off:
“Until next time…over and out burning ones.”
“Mama?” Cressida’s voice softly ventured from the top of the stairs startling Camaria somewhat from the reverie of her thoughts and the silence that lingered then receded as an ocean tide after the wake. Cressida’s curious face was softly illuminated by the small orb of light she held in her left hand that Kalea had carried for her from the East on her last visit.
“This will give you light without burning you,” her GrandMother had told her with pointed animation, a small laugh escaping her as she pulled Cressida closer who was cradled in her lap, Cressida not taking her black eyes off of the orb: serious, intent, intrigued with the light she’d held in her own reverent hand.
Poppy stirred slightly with the sound of her sister’s voice and the change in her mother’s vibration, then promptly relaxed back into sleep. Camaria turned off the radio, blew out the candle, and ascended the stairs, Poppy heavily sleeping on her shoulder, to lead her Cressida back into the Realms of Dreams and Magick.
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SECTION BREAK
BACK TO KILO

If You Love Someone
“I told my mother I wasn’t angry,” Kilo said to his uncle as they dragged fallen trees from the forest beside their small settlement to chop for their fires.

“Oh? And that is not true?” The Ice Man asked, raised a brow, then grunted with effort as they pulled.

“I thought it was. I am no longer angry with Camaria. That is true,” Kilo answered as he slowed his work, letting his uncle do more of the pulling for a moment while he formed his next thoughts, his next words. “But perhaps I am angry for some other reason, angry at someone else.” Head still down as they wrestled with a dead tree, Kilo ventured a glance through his golden bangs at his uncle, who continued to focus on his work.

“And who is that, then?” The Ice Man asked as the tree broke free of the bush it was tangled in.

“Kage, for attracting her attention, for keeping her. At myself for not hanging on to her while I had the chance,” Kilo answered as they stopped for a moment to get a better grip on the trunk, for Kilo to adjust his gloves, for The Ice Man to scratch his bearded neck.

“So, you want to be like Kage? You want to keep her?” The Ice Man asked, direct as always.

“If I want her, then yes; if I Love her, then no,” Kilo said, his answer true despite it not being what he wanted to hear.

“Yeeeessss,” The Ice Man stated in a hearty rumble. “And you Love her!”

“She is everything,” Kilo confessed.

“Then you must let her be everything,” The Ice Man rumbled once more, emphasising the last word, everything, dropping the log, his bare hands curling into fists raised slightly to the sky.

“What can I do?” Kilo implored his uncle as they picked up the tree once more and carried it along the path to the cabins. “I have spent time with Mani, I have built a house, I have come here to serve and to learn, but what can I do? What can I do so I don’t go mad wishing and wanting for something, a life, a woman, I do not have?”

“Ah, there it is, again,” stated The Ice Man.

“What, Uncle?”

“Keep, have!”

“Oh,” Kilo said as they entered the clearing and placed the tree in the pile they’d started an hour before.

“Again, do you Love her?” the burly man asked, wiping his hands together to remove some of the dirt and bark.

“Yes,” Kilo confirmed.

“Then you will not want to have her. You will invite her. Do not misunderstand me, young Kilo, daydreamer, you will always desire! You will even buuuuurn with it! And that is your life force!” he barked out a laugh. “But the ice will keep you clear, the ice will make you still. You do not want to quench the flames but temper them so they do not consume you. And Time will not matter, or the passing of it. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. Only this moment!” The Ice Man exclaimed, dancing eyes now locked onto Kilo’s.

“I understand, Uncle,” Kilo began, face warm despite the cool northern mountain air. “Yet I struggle. I ache. What do I do besides struggle and ache?” The Ice Man’s heart both softened and strengthened with the anguish on Kilo’s face.

“Do not be idle. That energy you feel building up, bursting from you, is your vi-tal-it-y. Do not waste it on struggling!” The Ice Man said as he patted Kilio’s chest. “Use your Big Mind too, yes, yes,” he continued, tapping Kilo’s head with a finger, “but also your hands. Be at peace, but do not wait. Hold your breath, go into the depths, but free your spirit. Love, Kilo. Live, Kilo. And it will be All Right.”

The Ice Man’s concentration on Kilo’s face broke for a moment, and he shifted his cool blue eyes, sensing something deeper in the forest; and before they started back into the forest to fetch the next tree, Kilo swore he glimpsed the fur of a snow leopard flash between the bushes.
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Book 6: Coda
Outside the Veil; Entering Veil's Edge
Prologue: The Great Migration
The people came in a wave over the hill, dazed as children woken prematurely from a deep slumber…dozens, then streams, as surreal as watching tiny ants moving with a singular destination along the golden landscape—the fields not yet green with the sun casting a yellow light, their shadows long and slow as the pace they kept. Steady, some looking around, following the signs and each foot, one step, one step, one step.

He was always surprised by the awe he felt when they arrived, as if each arrival was the first time he witnessed it. But hundreds of times he has borne witness, and every time, like a new birth. He watched them come out of The Veil, appearing as they re-formed from the aether into their dense bodies, materialising from a dream, from death, which he supposed it was.

He was prepared to give them the greeting he gave so many times a day, so many hundreds of times throughout his years here at The Outpost, but today, today was breathtaking, to watch as they streamed in, so many faces looking up, clasping each other’s arms to point up into the road ahead, to the top of the hill where he stood, their faces ashen but beginning to pink, the tears, the confusion, and for some of them trepidation and fear. A man laughed. A baby squealed. Children ran ahead chased by the calls of their mothers.
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Winter Rose
In the monastery grounds, Kilo had spread a thick wool covering on a knoll of earth where the snow was thin and placed two canteens and some food on the blanket. As the two of them approached the spot, The Silent pulled tighter the hooded shawl Kilo had placed around her shoulders before they exited The Zero, and smiled in approval.
They sat side by side, shifted to get comfortable, angled their bodies slightly toward each other to allow for their full attention on their silent, spoken, intoned, expressive conversation. She removed her hood, revealing the full effect of her amber hair, her deep blue eyes, her lips the colour of wild pink roses. They each removed their mittens to arrange and to enjoy what Kilo had prepared, his mitts thick and tan in colour, hers knitted grey wool lined with soft fabric she had made herself.
This is very nice, thank you, The Silent intoned.
You are welcome, Kilo intoned back.
Despite the fact that Kilo came to The Zero most every day and had encounters with many of The Silent throughout the time he spent there alongside them serving and tending to The Ancients, it had taken some weeks for the auburn haired woman to respond in kind to his tentative intonations. Kilo deeply respected their chosen silence, so only intoned when invited to do so with a gesture or a nod. She had invited Kilo’s words and intonations on many occasions, being rather expressive in body language and facial expression for one of The Silent, before he finally felt her reply—and when it came, it was a most precious gift, felt as a lovely, fragrant brush upon his Mind.
The Silent knew Kilo wanted nothing from her except some company, an exchange of friendship. In the world she came from, such friendships between a man and a woman were considered impossible. There would always be wanting and taking and possession. If friendship did exist, she would be one of the guys or he one of the girls, or there would be feigned friendship yet burning desire painfully bottled and capped. But with Kilo—he saw her, not as one of the guys or a prize he could not have or a convenient yet forgettable shadow, but as she was…and that was, as far as she was concerned, a miracle. Kilo was a miracle.
She also knew that particular space in his Heart was being held for another—which was not the reason for the safety she felt with him but something they shared, an understanding—because she was also waiting…although it made no logical sense to her why she waited, here of all places, in the solitude of a monastery in the mountains. It did, however, make every bit of illogical sense, since with each day she served there, she was more and more healed, more and more content. It was not yet Time. For any of them. And that was simply ok. She enjoyed her life, she enjoyed her experiences with Kilo. And Kilo felt the same.
He told her about his, Kai, and Django’s journey to The Timeless House of Time, and after trying to explain it in words and gesturing and intonation, he shared some of it with her by granting her The Sight—just enough for her to gasp with wonder but not enough to unground her or unhinge her Mind.
Eventually the conversation quieted, as conversations do, and both of them fell into their own reveries, comfort offered by the simple presence of each other.
What was he like? Kilo asked.
Fierce but tender, she answered, knowing full well who he was asking about. We were so young when I last saw him. But I know we are not finished, somehow we are not finished. There is a promise and a time for it to be fulfilled. I do not pine for him. Yet I dance with him in my Dreams. Does that make any sense? she asked.
Yes, Kilo intoned, expressing his understanding.
I have learned enough about harshness, about cruelty, Kilo.
I know, he acknowledged. Is this why you are here?
She nodded.
And alone?
She nodded again. Though not to hide, but to be invisible. To be free. To feel the Good in the world. You, Kilo, she intoned, smile lifting the petals of her mouth, you feel Good. Kilo didn’t know what to say in response, so he simply looked at his Friend and received her Love.
I believe you need something, she sent with softness and a little bit of mischief.
What is that, then? Kilo asked, curious.
And without warning, she kissed Kilo on the lips. Soft and light. And he closed his eyes with the sensation, the transmission of tenderness.
“That was very nice,” Kilo said aloud, pinwheel hazel eyes coming open to land on her smiling face. And she laughed, as did he, with the innocence, the delight of children exploring a new discovery.
“It is strange not knowing your name, not hearing your outer voice,” Kilo confessed aloud, “but of course I feel it in how you intone. I felt it in your kiss…your name.”
And without hesitation, still smiling, she intoned to him the name her Father pronounced to the world the day she was born.
“Of course,” Kilo said, a small laugh escaping, “of course.”
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Camaria
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I am Camaria, Daughter of Kalea and Anahata, Mother of Molina, Indigo, Cressida, Poppy, Coda, Kanji, and The Muse. I sing to the song of The DreamScape Artist, The Seer, The Envoy, and am Midwife to many.
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Beautiful Rage
It still wasn’t enough, after 9 years, and it was the same old story…he’d left The Pit that day intending to never return even before he’d met Camaria, the very day they’d met, in fact, on the street where he’d been wandering, cooling off, after yet another argument he’d had with Iago. The same argument over and over…but on that day, he had asked for an angel, and she had shown up.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Kage had said, the dark stink of The Pit sickening him—the women, the booze, the violence that no longer made sense to him—he just wanted to go outside, to meet the rain, to look at the sky.
“Don't be stupid,” Iago had countered, swirling his drink.
“I’m serious, Iago. I don't want this.”
“You’re a fucking idiot, then, brother. You have everything. You’re the top dog. You have women. Drugs. Booze. A fancy apartment.”
“I don’t have anything that matters.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” the last words he’d heard his chosen brother utter as he’d left The Pit for what he thought/hoped/wished would be the last time…
9 years ago, and still, Iago was fucking with his head, The Viper still fucking with his life.
Kage stumbled toward the glowing solar lights, toward their white castle which seemed like somewhat of a joke to him now. He was clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey, taking sips from it every few moments, having passed through the Checkpoint without incident, the guards letting him through knowing that it would be better for everyone if he would just go home and sleep it off.
He dropped his bag in the grass, bobbed and zagged, weaving between the alternating punches rage and apathy threw at him, spoke out loud to himself in sarcastic, nihilist outbursts. He was vaguely aware that he looked and sounded crazy, but he didn’t care. Perhaps he was losing it, perhaps that was the only true thing about him. He rounded the corner of the house, trampled through the garden, and drunkenly swayed into the open field beyond, and instead of apathy, the pain of betrayal, of regret, of hopelessness, of futility burst from him in a fit of rage so complete that he hardly registered Bones running to his side, nudging his elbow.
“I want to kill someone!” Kage screamed, throwing the bottle he’d been clutching into the field ahead of him. “I want to kill someone!!!” he screamed again, voice cracking like it did when he was a boy.
Camaria rushed to the kitchen window from where she’d been waiting with a cup of tea at the table, and at first she saw Berserker out in the courtyard rushing headlong and unhinged into the fields—but it was Kage, Kage came into focus.
Camaria burst through the door, rushed to intercept Kage from wherever, whatever, she wasn’t sure what, intoning to him as she ran, speaking aloud as she intercepted him and got in front of him, both of her palms on his chest.
“What is it, Kage, what is it?” Camaria implored, searching his tortured face, his black eyes that did not focus on the present, noting how his hair hung limp over his sweaty brow. Oh, how she Loved even this part of him, this beautiful rage that broke her Heart.
She could smell the drink on him, pieced some of the possibilities together as to what could have led to Kage’s undoing. His wings being bound or broken, she held him as he fell to the earth, collapsed into her, sinking, sobbing. He cried and cried bitter tears of grief drawn from a deep chasm of sorrow— endless, bottomless, black. And Camaria did not let go, let him empty himself as she held on for the both of them. After some time, Camaria was able to coax him back to bed where she climbed in beside him, held her Beloved once more as he cried himself to sleep.
Kage did not speak that night nor did he speak about it the next day, and Camaria didn’t press. She woke to an empty bed and Kage in the kitchen looking beautiful as always in relaxed cotton sweats pulled up on his calves, the only indication of last night’s trauma two purple circles under his beautiful eyes and a slight sag and drag in his posture only noticeable to Camaria’s honed eye.
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Lessons with Shiraz
“Father told me what Love is, you know,” Shiraz began, glancing at her brother as they walked together down the path toward The Bow, “the last time we visited. I felt the answer when I asked him.”

“Oh?” Kilo answered, his interest piqued, then brushed an insect off of Shiraz’s head, his collar bone healed enough now for him to raise his arm to do so.

“Do you know?” Shiraz lightly teased, hazel eyes widening, brightening, “What Love is, I mean?”

“Yes. No. Mama says…well, I’m not sure, really,” Kilo answered a bit sheepishly. Shiraz was always better at verbalising such things, and he really preferred to listen.

“It is what you feel for our mother and father, what you feel for aunty and uncle, what you feel for the animals in this forest, what you feel for me, but also what you feel for Camaria. That kind is different, though. The one you feel for Camaria.”

“What? Camaria?” Kilo said feebly, slowing his stride somewhat.

“We all know, Kilo,” Shiraz said, a pace ahead of him now, turning around to look at him while she spoke, walking backward. “It is no secret,” she smiled, raising her eyebrows a little.

“I know,” Kilo said, giving up the ruse, and shook his head, “but it feels private to me. I do not like to be exposed so much,” he said and looked at the ground. Shiraz let him catch up, turned, then matched his pace once again.

“Kilo!” Shiraz laughed, “you are as open as the fields in Savannah in every language except your speech.”

“Do you think she loves me?” he asked, wincing a little, bracing his heart, hoping her answer would quell the churning of uncertainty in his belly.

“Of course,” Shiraz confirmed matter-of-factly, sounding just like their mother for a brief moment.

“I do not mean like a brother or a friend or one of these bunnies in the forest,” Kilo explained, “I mean…”

“Romantically?” Shiraz finished with a sigh and her hands folded under her chin.

“Yes. I guess that is what I mean,” Kilo said, unaffected but amused by Shiraz’s dramatic expressions.

“Now, that is yet to be seen, brother. We are still young, the three of us! And there is so much yet to uncover and discover, so much beyondering for us all to do!” she said with a twirl.

“I suppose there is,” Kilo reluctantly agreed.

“And is that not good?” Shiraz inquired, seeing Kilo’s face fall with disappointment.

“No. It feels like an eternity—to wait.”

“Haha, for being so patient, you are not at all patient,” Shiraz teased a bit more, then mischief took hold. “You do not have to wait, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Kilo asked, eyebrow cocked, looking sidelong over his shoulder at his sister who had slowed with her epiphany.

“You could, you know, kiss her or something,” Shiraz suggested, a wide smile spreading over her face. “Oh what I would do for a kiss!”

“Kiss her?! No! I could never…”

“Oh, do not get all bunched up about it! It was only an idea. Make her something. A gift, then. A token of your undying Love,” Shiraz went on, hands animating her every word.

“I have already started making her something,” Kilo admitted, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Let me see!” Shiraz demanded.

“No,” Kilo said, fingering that very gift in his pocket, “not until it is finished.”

“Oh, I Love surprises, even when they are not for me!” Shiraz exclaimed then took her brother’s arm.

“I know you do,” Kilo said and smiled again. His sister always made it easy to feel and to speak, even if the subjects were difficult to speak about. She made his heart bigger. She made him want to Play and to Dream. Maybe that is what she meant about Love, the Knowing she had when she lay at Janus’ feet the last time they visited their father in the North.

“I will tell you a story then, brother. A Love story! Would you like that? Would that warm your heart? Would it give you something to conjure from your DreamScape at night?” she sighed, skipping now with images that began to burst in her beautiful head.

“You know I always like your Love stories,” Kilo smiled shyly, “they make me…” he hesitated to think as they continued to walk arm in arm, Kilo’s hands in his pockets.

“Warm!” Shiraz exclaimed, “warm like an ember softly burning from your belly to your heart. In that spot, right there!” Shiraz exclaimed as she suddenly let go of Kilo’s arm and slapped him in the solar plexus.

“Something like that,” Kilo oufed, stumbling a bit, laughing over his shoulder at his sister’s animated face.

“She sees you, Kilo,” Shiraz assured, still light but serious now, “she sees you probably more clearly than anyone else—except me, of course!” she stated before she grabbed his arm again and began to bring to life Kilo’s favourite story of Love—the one about the star crossed lovers who lived in the days when the ghosts of the Haunted Kingdom still housed their fleshy bodies.

Kilo listened intently, enjoying his sister spinning her yarn, learning about Life and Loss, learning about Love.
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A Million Little Stings
Forgive them Father for they know not what they do.
-Lauren Hill.
It had been several months since the demonstration, and all Kage could do was keep the memories at bay. In doing so, he was quite literally not himself, the viper coiling around the clamshell so completely Camaria couldn’t feel into him, the frequency masked and distorted. He was quiet with her, no longer in synch—Camaria with their children, It had been several months since the demonstration, and all Kage could do was keep the memories at bay. In doing so, he was quite literally not himself, The Viper coiling around the clamshell so completely Camaria couldn’t feel into him, the frequency masked and distorted. He was quiet with her, no longer in sync—Camaria with their children, and Kage withdrawn to his office, doing what she did not know.
It was then that something snapped, split in their world, a divergence in the path—in the Vesica, in Timelines, within Kage, himself. And the buzzing…without warning it would begin and would not stop until Kage could silence it with the harsh, numbing bite of liquid spirits while he sat in his office sipping, swallowing, downing drink after drink. What he did not expect was the weakness, the breach, the wound it would gape, an easy access for the infiltration of an uninvited guest.
Who was this man? Kage himself did not know. Within the first few sips, he would simply stroll into Kage’s body, his mind, puppeting him into thinking cynical thoughts and voicing stinging comments—ugly and hopeless. Though Kage attempted to drown the man that he was, with every drink, he simply fed the flames of another that he was not.
There were perks, however, and believe it or not. The responsibility for this man’s actions, what the other man would do or say shed from him like an oily stain—not something he had to try to forget but simply gone from his memory, leaving only a hint of what had burned and the destruction in its path, the smoky tendrils of a doused fire.
Kage was no fool—he knew that there was more to learn about his black-outs, fugues, and vacancies, but he did not ask and did not seek solace with his Beloved who would help him to remember—because this time all he wanted was to forget. The forgetting was both a side-effect and also a relief, the absolution of his sins having not been in control, having had no say in the matter, having not even been there.
Blind and mean, baiting and trapping, then going for the kill…both the cure and the symptom was a deep forgetting, a painful severing, a disconnect from his soul, from what Camaria would call his Knowing—possessed if you will, his mind corrupted by distorted thoughts and misinterpretations of even the purest of interaction. And when he was not stinging he was more quiet, withdrawn, ashamed of his attacks, generating more and more evidence to hate himself, but unable to stop it.
“Kage, what is going on?” Camaria implored one evening after the children were asleep.
“I’m just having a nightcap,” Kage said, his back to her, pouring himself another drink then sitting in the chair beside the windows. He did not invite her in from where she was standing in the doorway of his office, feet bare, nightshift softly flowing over her growing belly. He did not wrap his arms around her. He did not ask about her day. He did not notice how beautiful she was.
“You have been having quite a lot of those these last months. It may be time to tell me what happened,” Camaria confronted.
“Happened?” Kage said, feigning ignorance through sarcasm. “Nothing more than what has always been happening. Nothing has changed, Camaria.”
“But I think it has, Kage. Everything has changed,” she countered.
“What does it matter? What does any of this matter?” Kage said with the kind of flat rage that reeks of futility.
“We Matter. You Matter,” Camaria said.
“It’s different for you, Camaria. You’re fucking perfect,” Kage said, flat tone igniting into heat.
“You are perfect,” Camaria said, trying to bring him Home.
“No, Camaria, I’m not even close,” Kage said, angry now at Camaria’s attempt to affirm and console him. Then Kage’s scoff that followed triggered something within her that pressed for release.
“What is wrong, Kage?” Camaria asked, coming out with it. “The drinking…” and she had gotten too close…
“Did you ever think that maybe it’s you?,” Kage snapped. “I can’t live up to your expectations, your perfection. What do you want from me, Camaria? Nothing is good enough for you. It must be nice, to be so perfect. Perfect Camaria. You do no wrong,” he needled her, trying to poison her with little painful stings, one at a time until not a spot on her skin was unmarked. “Me on the other hand, I am all wrong.” he concluded, the last sting giving away the truth behind his attack.
“This is not The Way,” Camaria stated instead of mounting a defence or attempting to convince him otherwise.
“Fuck. You sound just like your parents. The Way, what is the Way? It’s all nonsense, what your backward people talk about—naiive, just fucking ridiculous.” Was he laughing at her? “If this is not your way, Camaria, maybe you should go back to them.” Camaria flinched, Kage stiffened, the silence of pain and the regret of words that could not be unspoken.
“Kage, where have you gone?” Camaria implored. “We need you. Our daughters, our sons who will be born soon…”
“No, you don't need anything Camaria, not me or anyone,” Kage said, bitter, not able to stop this moving train, the buzzing or the stings that resulted.
Camaria knew this was not the dark side of Kage because she had seen and loved every part of him, both dark and light, every child, boy, and man; the demon, the reptile, the soldier with the broken mind—but this man was not Kage at all, this man who walked into their lives was an imposter.
“I do not,” Camaria confirmed. “But I want you,” she finished, allowing the stings to subside, attempting to sound through the buzzing.
But he did not hear…lost with the spirits…
And Camaria could not help but say before she turned and closed the door:
“This is not what you promised.”
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Warriors of the Heart
As Lyra began to strum her instrument the people began to come, called to the courtyard of the banquet hall by the sound of the Lute and the rich aromas of cooking. They were enchanted by the harmony, of each string playing in concert, willingly gathering as if the Pied Piper’s followers, just as Lyra’s playing once both called and soothed the Children of Salem (Salem’s Children). They were to gather for a feast this eve, the community hosting this day’s honoured guest.
Kai had arrived with Lyra, Furkan, and their children a few minutes before Lyra settled herself on a chair near the stone fire pit and began to play. The children led Kai around the space showing him the layout, introducing him to the people as they arrived while Furkan leaned on a post of the hall watching his Beloved. Volunteers conversed and cooked food brought from the storage houses, stirring large pots over 4 fires that were well-stoked—burning hot and steady. Between conversations, people restocked the small piles of wood, replenished water jugs, escorted and helped seat the elders, directed children as to where they could help.
As the greetings waned, bellies began to rumble, and the line-up for food began to move as the people served each other, Kai sat at a long table with Furkan, the children, and a plate full of nourishment.
“You flew with Lyra and ____ today, yes?” Furkan began after they had taken a few bites. “I spotted you from the ground and enjoyed the spectacle. How was it?” he asked. The children were already finished their meal, having rushed through to get to playing with their Friends. Furkan excused them, and Kai swallowed before answering.
“It was spectacular. AND it was the strangest thing…at first I willed _____ to fly where I wanted her to go, but of course I had no choice as the passenger…and still I was happy to ride with Lyra in front of me as if leading and the great bird beneath carrying us, her warm feathered back a great and mighty comfort…but my eyes kept going out of focus, despite the goggles Lyra lent me, and I had to fight to regain it somewhat…then I realised that what I thought was a failure of my sight was only a….hmmmm…how can I put this...a softening?…and then I let go of trying to see, I let it soften…and suddenly it became sharp and clear, and I saw the entire landscape as I have never seen it before, even more clearly than when I sat atop the great cliff with Lyra before we took flight…it was more than seeing from the heights ___ took us to, but as if I was seeing through ____’s very own eyes.”
“Hmmm, yes,” Furkan said, savouring, delighting in Kai’s experience. “Was it different from flying in your Raven form?”
“I have known what it is to fly, but I have never been able to See like that. So, it was the same but very different. My Raven view can focus on what I want to see. The Great Hawk’s view showed me what I needed to see, or maybe it is what could be seen if I get out of the way, if I stop interfering; what comes into focus may be what I want, and it may not be. But it is clear—without me but including me. Does that make sense?”
“Completely,” Furkan said.
“On our flight, I saw a Great Eagle,” Kai began. “It sent a thrill through me, the sight of him, like a bolt of lightning.”
“Oh?” Furkan said, eyebrows high, intrigue rising in his voice. “That is something quite special, Kai, for one of the Eagles to show themself to you.
“Yes, Lyra told me. And they do not take passengers,” Kai added, both men casually taking bites of food between responses.
“No, they do not. It is the Great Eagles that Lyra spends most of her time serving, she and a few others including myself, Takeo, and Falcon. When Lyra first came back from the West, they took her under their wings as if one of their own chicks, and she spent most of her days sitting near their nests, in the field of their Majesty.
“Our little Emery likes to be in their presence, as well,” Furkan continued, holding up a small plate of fruit which Kai refused with gratitude and a quick lift of his hand, “especially on the auspicious and rare occasion when one of their young hatches, yet she is also drawn to the Human company of GrandMother Eagle who teaches Emrey’s hands to express what is being woven in her Soul, between all Souls...”
“Creation…the act and the web of it,” Kai blurted.
“Precisely,” Furkan said and smiled big and wide. “You are a quick study, Kai.”
“Not quick, Furkan, I have just been at it for some time,” Kai said and smiled back. “Perhaps I am slow,” he added, and both men laughed.
“This looks like a lively table,” Lyra interrupted, seating herself beside her Beloved. “Can I join you?” Neither man had noticed that the music had stopped and were surprised but pleasantly when they looked up to greet Lyra.
“Sit, Darling,” Furkan invited. “You played beautifully, as always.”
“Thank you,” Lyra replied as she made herself comfortable.
“Have you eaten?” Furkan asked her.
”Yes, but thank you.”
“All Right, then,” Furkan said, satisfied to settle in for a bit longer for conversation.
“The Westerners say that we do not make a lot of what they call ‘small talk’ around here,” Lyra said.
“That is true,” Kai agreed.
“So, without any idle delay, I would like to continue our story, to share it with you before you go, Kai.”
“She is efficient, my Lyra,” Furkan said and was met with a light “hmph,” from Lyra in agreement.
“Yes, please, Lyra. I would be very grateful for that,” Kai encouraged. And Lyra thought for a moment about how she would resume.
“When I returned home to The Roost, I was virtually crippled with pain, as if I were a Great Flier whose wings had been clipped. And it took some time for me to pick myself up from the ground I sat on each day in the Great Eagle’s nesting grounds. But the Great Fliers and Furkan, they were very patient with me. Very patient.”
“And why wouldn’t we be?” Furkan interjected. “You did not owe anyone your presence.”
“Perhaps not, but I am grateful anyway,” she said to both men. “Death I can accept, but it was the violence with which it came that I could not reconcile. Though it did not defeat me but ignited a desire to create more life. There were children waiting to be born, there was more to create, more to be lived and shared in this world. There was Furkan,” Lyra said, tilting her head to look at her Beloved, then back to Kai. “I could not stay broken. I did not even have to try to heal because it just happened…slowly, but it happened…with the process of Time, with the patience of Love.”
“Yes,” Furkan mused, almost in a whisper, caught up in the memories that ruffled his mind for a moment. “We could have chosen war—within ourselves, with those we had been fighting. But we chose something else.”
“Warriors of the Heart, Warriors of Love,” Kai remarked.
“It takes one to know one,” Lyra said. And Furkan agreed.
“Furkan followed me here, you know,” Lyra said, shifting gears a little.
“Haha, that is right,” Furkan laughed. “I did, but I do think I was invited, yes?”
“Of course,” Lyra said through a smile, patting her Beloved’s knee, then continuing her tale. “After Erris and I stumbled back into the Realm through the Other Side of Eden and called through our threads for help, I was dumb, depleted, and a bit wild. Furkan, Takeo, and Falcon came to get us, and carried us back to Veil’s Edge in the carriage they had drawn with horses. Furkan cared for me personally, and as he tended to my wounds, I told him of my Home and that I wished to return here. We knew that we would not part again. That this would be the place for Us,” and after a moment, seeing Furkan’s expression, she added:
“I knew that it would be here that Furkan would fly once more.”
“And she was right, as she always is,” Furkan said, picking up the tale. “When we got here, it was like I had finally come Home. It was a long time before I would get used to the awe of witnessing a Great Flyer soaring overhead, but the awe never fades. And when I was gifted my first flight? No experience I had had in any aeroplane could come close to comparing. The speed, the wind on the backs of living, breathing creatures of majesty,” Furkan went on with mounting fervour, “fully alive, participating, moving, adjusting, becoming one with the birds and their True visions…I realised that I had never really flown at all before then. This was TrueFreedom, and I did not need to fight for it.”
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The Demon Speaks
\"Only love can hurt like this
It must have been a deadly kiss
Only love can hurt like this…\"
-Paloma Faith

Kage didn’t return home for several hours after the meeting with his father. When she returned to an empty house, Camaria inquired through their thread, and Kage tried to assure her that he was fine and with an old acquaintance—but his denials were as transparent to her as a peeling sheet of cellophane. But she remained neutral, lit some candles, ate her supper, connected with her parents, rendered a painting of them, and cried as her heart drank it in while it dried.

Kage stumbled in the back door, through the kitchen, and into the living room where Camara had gotten up from where she was now reading in a nest of pillows on the couch. She’d been expecting his arrival, sensing him getting closer as he clumsily made his way home. It was the first time Camaria had ever seen him intoxicated, and it hurt her heart to see the shape he was in—crumpled and smelling of the poison that drowned him, the spirits not his own.

“Honey, I’m home,” he announced, a mumbled half-attempt at a joke, but his mouth could not force the smile that should have followed.

Camaria approached him, looked up into his pained face, put her hand on his cheek. She could not smell his usual heady scent—he was cloaked, awash, the pungent aroma of alcohol expelled grief from his lungs with every breath. He closed his eyes at her touch, then opened them trying to focus on her face, then over her shoulder.

He spied the painting where she’d hung it on the wall: her parents, Anahata and Kalea, Anahata’s big hand circling Kalea’s waist, Kalea’s long fingers lingering on the back of Anahata’s neck, eyes closed, bodies touching from their foreheads to their toes, Time suspended in a dance on silver violin strings, in one satin moment of forever.

Kage had never witnessed such intimacy, and emotion blindsided him with such impact he misconstrued it as violence. Instead of the tears that wanted to fall—angry, jealous, hurting, Kage stepped back, lashed out instead, bit Camaria with his words, completely under the influence of the demons he danced with.

“How quaint,” he mocked. Camaria knit her brow at that, letting her hand fall to her side.

“You know,” he drawled, ripping his gaze from the painting, making his way over to plop himself heavily onto the couch, “no one’s that perfect. They must be one hard act to follow.”

“What do you mean, Kage?” Camaria asked, taking a seat on the couch beside him but slightly out of reach. He was biting, and though she held steady, she wasn't fond of getting bit.

“They kept you in a gilded cage, Camaria. Their little pet. How did it feel to be in their shadow, those perfect parents of yours?” The Demon spoke through him as he scoffed. “You were in their shadow, Camaria. You had no place but to be Small Little Camaria in their great and arrogant wake. And where do you belong now? Would they even have a place for you? It seems they are getting along quite nicely without you.” Camaria blinked once, twice, at the stings she felt though he did not touch her skin. Kage pricked her with the venom of lack so he could antidote what he, himself, corrupted. One by one, with a needling finger, he injected the seeds of doubt into the soft and open soil in the garden of her mind. The only question now was if those seeds might germinate.

His accusations sounded familiar, she decided, but the story wasn’t hers.

Not wanting to poke the rising buzz of the hornet nest, Camaria still ventured to respond.

“I was not their pet, but the result of their Love, their third. Like she is ours,” she said, hand on her belly, her words a cold splash of water dousing the heat of the buzzing, softening the sharp edges of Kage’s tongue.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, slowly coming back to sense. He stopped his attack lest he scare off his little bird, flapping her way back to her parents, and lay his head to rest in her lap.

“Will you stay here? Don’t leave. I will take care of you. I need you,” he said into her large and taut belly. “I’m sorry,” he said again, and meant it.

“I am not leaving, Kage.”

“Look at this house, this land, all of the things I can give you,” he mumbled, quieter now.

“I am not leaving, Kage,” she repeated, running her fingers through his black hair, and he turned his face up to look at her.

As if a spell were broken, the fog cracked, and Camaria came into focus. Her beautiful olive-skinned face full of pain, yet still deep with Love, unflinching even now.

“Are we ok?” he asked her, not even knowing quite what he meant by that. But she did. Am I ok?

“Everything is All Right. You are All Right.” He sat up and leaned into her, falling limp and heavy into a dreamless sleep as she held him, his head on her breast and his ear to the rhythms of a mother and their child’s heartbeats.

“I only need this, Kage,” Camaria said, placing her hand on his chest, though she was sure he was already asleep. “I only want you.”

—---------

That night, after she’d slipped from her entanglement with Kage’s unconscious body, covering him up and kissing his clammy brow, Camaria stood in the bathroom and pulled the stopper from the bottle of The Antidote. The nectar from the saffron pollen, the ambrosia from earth and leaf, brought her to the doorstep of Heaven, itself.

She’d been inhaling the elixir every night since her arrival in the realm. The medicine was luscious, awakening her senses, her memories, yet she knew that it was also symbolic; she knew that even without it she was never far from Home. But it brought her to her senses through her senses, the golden colour, the scent flowering a blooming portal within her chest. It grounded her, re-Minded her, re-membered her—where she came from and where she had always been—carried the essence of Truth with every sweet and precious drop.
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In the Veil’s Edge books, Carla Atherton demonstrates meticulous world building and the insight and foresight of a new consciousness, while addressing the real world modern issues we collectively face today. The books are an exploration of what could be when we reconnect, when we tap back into the old stories and wisdom traditions of our ancestral peoples, back further even to ancient Egyptian technology, the mysteries of the planet, cosmos, and great monuments, the poetry of the artists, the mystics, and the great sages of our past, present, and future. The books illuminate our opportunity to reinvent our lived story through an imagined possibility.
Masterfully crafted, the books capture readers in often poetic prose, and are performed and produced as an audio experience–-the telling of a story around the fire, enriched with music, soundscapes, and meditative, mesmerizing, enchanting experiences.
Please do come in, come in!
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Horror to Honour
As night became dawn, their intoxication came more from the alcohol they’d found in Kage’s office than The Red Bullet—a welcome dilution, a dulling of the inflammation—but even that supply dried up. At first they wanted more of the pills as the high wore off and the swelling in their brains came down, not so they could return to madness but to block what was to come with the clarity. But eventually, inevitably, the colour slowly returned to their eyes—Rocket’s soft blue, MayDay’s chocolate brown, City Boy’s twinkling green, Berserker's gold-rimmed hazel…Ghost’s stayed White—and so, the memories started to seep into the empty spaces.
Camaria and Kage heard the muted sounds of male voices, water running, smelled cooking aromas—such common movements of morning. When their daughters were beyond ready for the day, curiosity piqued, no longer willing to be contained, when their parents felt safe to do so, Camaria and Kage came down the front stairs, little ones in tow. One would have thought they’d had a houseful of pleasant invited guests.
Ghost and the commander were sitting on the couch in the living room talking intently but without too much volume while Berserker, still quite bewildered, agitated, walked around the room taking in Camaria’s many paintings. MayDay was outside looking around, stretching his legs, getting some air, taking in the sun. He dropped a few times to do 20, though no one knew where he found the strength to do push ups after what they’d been through.
Camaria was grateful that Berserker didn’t notice the painting she’d rendered the night before, having the wherewithal to lay it flat on top of one of the cabinets before they’d intercepted the men in the kitchen. It would have been much too painful for them to face at this delicate stage, a trigger tripping the potential land of mines that was blessedly quiet this morning.
The Commander watched Berserker out of the corner of his eye, yet he and Ghost stood to fully face and address the family.
“Good morning,” Camaria greeted simply.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the Commander replied with a curt nod of his head first to Camaria, then to Kage who he addressed as “Sir.”
“Come to leash your wild dogs?” Kage shot out. Ghost winced.
“Yes, you could say that,” the Commander replied with a flicker of regret, taking the hit, but standing, hard, unflinching.
“Thank you for your hospitality, although I understand it was not so much a choice,” the Commander added in a voice full of gravel, offering his large, rough hand to shake. Camaria accepted. Kage did not.
“It was a choice,” Camaria countered without conflict as they ended their brief physical connection. “I am called Camaria.” Kage wanted to shoot her a look but stood by.
“Oberon,” the Commander offered, a light tingle lingering from Camaria’s touch.
“And these are our daughters,” Camaria said, “Molina, Indigo, and Cressida.” Molina poked her hand out from between her parents where she stood with her sisters, the first hand Ghost shook before exchanging shakes with her mother.
“Ghost,” was all he said, bending to take Molina’s small hand, smiling at all three of the children. Kage restrained himself, deciding to trust Camaria’s instincts over his own. While Molina and Indigo inspected the white man, hair and eyelashes the colour of snowflakes, of delicate webs, Cressida beamed with a smile of her own, all cheeks and sparkling black eyes that reflected Ghost’s image back to him.
“She does not say much,” Molina explained, voice amiable enough, dark brow furrowed in thought looking just like her mother when her mind was puzzling something.
“And how old are you?” Ghost asked.
“Seven.”
“And you?” he asked, addressing Indigo who hid behind her mother’s legs, head full of large short delicate copper curls, not yet ready to answer, though many words pressed and bubbled. Ghost guessed she was somewhere around five, marvelled briefly at the depth of her sea green eyes against her sun kissed cheeks.
“Can we speak? Later?” Oberon asked the couple.
“Yes, that would be wise,” Camaria answered; then all were startled by a clang in the kitchen as a pot lid clattered to the floor, followed by a bit of cursing.
“Glad you’re so comfortable in our home,” Kage said, voice cool, disguising the heat that was rising under his collar. “If you’ll excuse us, we need to get the girls something to eat.”
“I understand,” Oberon said, stepping aside to let them pass. “The men need something to do,” he added as if in explanation. “A way to contribute. I assure you that you will never again see what you saw last night. Those were not these men.” And Kage knew the truth of that, reassessed where his anger should lie.
Before they moved on to the kitchen, Kage paused, offered his hand to Oberon who took it, then to Ghost who did the same.
“Kage,” Kage said, expression still cool, but hostility beginning to uncoil in small, careful (cautious), reticent degrees.
“Shadow,” Berserker said under his breath from the side of the room, almost involuntarily, commenting on the name without taking his eyes off of the painting he was looking at.
“What’s that?” Kage asked him, not quite trusting what he thought he’d heard.
“He’s a bit of a wordsmith; bookish you might say,” Ghost explained. “Words, names, and meaning intrigue him.”
“I can’t say it’s nice to meet you,” Kage continued, redirecting his attention back to Ghost, then to Oberon, “but I can offer my name.”
—------------
Rocket and City Boy were in the kitchen drinking coffee and busying themselves. The back door was already repaired, and Rocket squatted with some tools he must have found in the shed doing what he could to fix the chairs. He was washed and comfortable in some of Kage’s grey sweats, his cobalt bandanna cleaned, dried overnight, and re-tied across his tanned forehead. City Boy, whose impeccable manners and enchanting charm had returned, was particularly tidy, clean shaven, short dirty-blonde hair neatly combed to his lovely head. Lithe and muscled, he fit perfectly into Kage’s black tee shirt and pants. He was cooking eggs he’d found in the coops out back.
They could have been Camaria’s brothers had she had any.
“I hope you don’t mind,” City Boy said a bit sheepishly as the family entered.
“We told you you could help yourselves,” Camaria said. Neither man knew what to say, so Rocket continued to work on the chair and City Boy plated some of the eggs.
“These are for you,” he offered Camaria, who accepted the plate with a thank you. Eying Kage briefly and deciding it best not to poke the nest, City Boy offered some of his creations to the children instead. After checking in with their parents through intonations, Cressida and Indigo accepted with nods. Molina declined saying she would get her own apple from the bowl on the table, thank you.
After a few minutes, having finished his conversation with Ghost and feeling that Berserker was well enough to leave alone with the white soldier, Oberon followed the family into the kitchen where they were seated now, eating, as Rocket continued to make repairs and City Boy leaned on the counter sipping coffee unwittingly from Camaria’s favourite mug.
Oberon’s face was granite, but inside, as he took a moment to watch the family alive and well at the table, his soldiers back to themselves, he was overwhelmed with gratitude that he hadn’t come upon a very different scene the night before.
When the Red Bullet was dispensed to the Commanders and Generals one week earlier, there was already a buzz moving through the barracks and mess halls created by “leaks” of information. Their orders were to disperse the drug to their soldiers before each battle, told that the pills would enhance the soldiers’ fighting capacity, focus their minds, reduce their fear, increase their tolerance for pain, quicken their reflexes, heighten their senses, improve their healing time—the drug would make them faster, stronger, more determined to conquer—it would give them a colossal edge over the other factions, perhaps even finally crushing them altogether.
But Oberon could hear the unsaid words, the reality of the inevitable fallout: the alteration washing them clean of restraint, giving them strength and ability greater than any human’s capacity to handle it, delusional and dangerous, thinking themselves gods without consequence, without the structure a chain of command provides; the chain of command within the army, within the Self. Somehow this prospect slapped Oberon with epiphany, an understanding he had never even considered in his 30 years of service to The Empire.
What was he really serving? he found himself thinking, the notion interrupting, rattling his previously rigid beliefs about honour and discipline, confused as to where the thought originated.
Oberon believed that even in the games of battle, there must be limits where the consequences of losing were pain, loss, and often death. The choice to play was a burden born without complaint or breaking/crumbling/cracking under the weight of it. All good leaders understood this. Oberon had always trusted his superiors to decide next strategic steps; though they were sometimes counter to what he would have chosen, he believed The Empire had the knowledge, the authority to make decisions that would affect the lives of all in the realm. Order had to be maintained.
Oberon had moved up the ranks not through nepotism or favouritism but by honing his strength, by action, by taking out dozens of the enemy in every battle, a swath of red cut down in his path. He was well respected though he had few friends and had no family to speak of except his father who relied on his own meager veteran rations now that his injuries and age shelved him from service. He’d learned everything from his father: his commanding demeanor; his controlled yet killer instinct for survival; his aptitude for winning battles; and though he felt a wall of distance between them, Oberon deeply respected the man given that living past 40 in service to The Empire’s Army was a miracle.
Though Oberon learned how to be hard, he never did stop feeling, and he didn’t think any of them really could. He was not cruel, nor did he relish in the destruction of others. He felt every life he took, which amounted to a great many, losing track two decades ago. Though some stuck out in his mind more than others, he could not remember them all. His mother, well, his mother’s death was the first death for which he’d been responsible, her life exchanged for her son’s on the day of his birth. This death he remembered, though it was through the story his father had told him when he was a boy, reminded him of every time he wanted Oberon to make her sacrifice count.
He’d killed, yes, but he was not a killer, he reasoned. This, to him, was the difference between man and monster, the line he would not cross, the line he drew very deeply in the minds of the soldiers under his command.
So, when he was to follow this particular set of orders, a new war began to take place within. It was the first time his own dormant conscience disagreed, the first time doubt in the higher command, who that might be, and to what end niggled at his mind, dismantling the story he’d been told, the story he told himself.
“Commander?” came a loud female voice slicing through his reverie. “Commander Oberon,” she repeated, “do you understand your orders?” The Strategic General (what is she called, and do I name her?) barked at him.
“Yes, General,” was all Oberon could say, his loss for further words going unnoticed not being a talkative man in most circumstances anyway. So, Oberon asserted his compliance along with the other generals, commanders, and officers at The Empire’s Army Strategic Meeting, though he was strangely aware that he had no intention of complying as he returned to his quarters that evening where he closed the door to think for a bit.
Along with their orders, they were given pamphlets to distribute to their companies, leaflets that advertised glorious, triumphant soldiers atop hills backdropped by blazing sunrises, sporting the lies, concealing the disaster that was sure to follow the use of the drugs. Scoffing at the ridiculous images, Oberon tucked the propaganda away in his office cabinet, for the whole thing wreaked deception that was obvious to him now—not the deception of the enemy, but the deception of The Empire’s own.
He was not opposed to duplicity in times of war. In fact, it was part of the game; the best at trickery, ambush, and manoeuvring would earn the right to victory; but this particular deception took advantage of, manipulated, his own soldiers. Oberon began to think, to wonder, if this was not the first time. And as soon as the thought landed, he wondered how stupid he’d been not to have admitted it until then; the lie that was his whole life, the lie that served as purpose for his very existence. Oberon was not one to simper with regret; so, the realisation did not cripple him but set him into motion.
In war one chose a side. But Oberon started to question what that meant, if The Empire had even created the division of factions themselves, the borders on the maps, the fragments and cracks in families and the minds of his soldiers, in himself. Because if they could lie about this, were lying about this…so, after his soldiers went AWOL, he easily saw through the smoke that cleared. Once, (and it seemed like a dream now, really) for all those years, he’d had a side to fight for, a righteous cause, a clear structure leashing the threatening chaos…until now. The Bullet promised chaos unleashed, and now that it had been released, it could not be put back into the chamber.
So, one week after The Red Bullet’s disbursement, after his men went AWOL, after he’d come to fetch them albeit too late to save them from the horrors they would have to face every day for the rest of their lives, as he watched Camaria and Kage and their little family in the kitchen, alive and well, Oberon felt some of his stone soften.
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Blossoms in Spring
As Shiraz sat on a rocky clearing high on the ridge of Cold Mountain that overlooked the entire Crocus Valley writing about wildflowers and her playmate Johanna, Adonis and Jazz, Hector and Octavia, arrived on Cold Mountain with their Sons and Daughters, their blossoms, a fragrant bouquet blown up from The South. As with every change in season, it did not have to be sought, as the Spring inevitably came to them; the movement, the newness that comes after release.
In the cycle, the turning of one single year, Tallulah and Kai had created Life, became parents, died to grief and sorrow and loss, slowly formed the scars of memory, the markings of existence, the declaration/demarcation of “I was here,” and “I am here” from and in place of the wounds. Both had been transformed in Ways only such experiences could catalyse, experiences none of Hector or Adonis’ children had been through—not even the oldest of Adonis and Jazz’s Daughters, Daphne, who was 22, had any children though she did have a SweetHeart.
So, naturally, the families were the perfect cacophony to jostle and re-awaken Tallulah and Kai to the innocence of youth though they would never be what they once were as none of us ever are.
Though the families of The South and the family of The North were not related by blood, they were kin in the most fundamental way. The southerners arrived on the mountain after a gloriously eventful three-day hike through the trail that led to the homestead. Adonis and Jazz with their five girls: Daphne (22), Godiva (20), Diana (19), Sanja (17), and Demeter (15). Joya and Rhapsody not yet born. Hector and Octavia with their even number of Sons and Daughters: Simone (15), Django (12), Lionel (10), and Alora, a sweet and tender age of 7.
The group finally broke through the trees that encircled the settlement’s clearing, the forest presenting each gift who ducked under branches, stepped over roots and stones, picked and skipped their Way through the path in clumps and clusters of walking companions. Adonis and Hector lead, followed by the oldest of the girls and young women; Django and his Aunty Jazz linked the leaders and the trailers; Octavia brought up the rear behind Lionel who ensured little Alora’s surefootedness as he clumsily gripped her slender arm.
Having yet to return to Veil’s Edge, Yara greeted her Friends and their boisterous gaggle having been alerted to their coming by the chatter and the songs that preceded their arrival.
“Yara!” Adonis exclaimed, rushing forth and grabbing the sinewy woman into a bear hug who hugged him back as much as she wriggled out of his grip.
“We have arrived!” Adonis declared after releasing her, to everyone and no one in particular, looking around the settlement, taking a loud, deep breath of the fresh air oranged with sunshine.
At that moment, the forest produced Mani just East of where the families had entered.
“Mani!” Adonis called, and he and Hector veered off to intercept him. Mani had made the trip to also help with the annual tasks and chores involved with spiffing up the place—patching and building, readying the mountain lodge for the travelers who’d inevitably flow through from the melts of spring to the first flakes of snow. This year there was much to do and two new longhouses to construct, so many hands were much appreciated. Mani laughed with childlike delight as he was manhandled in greeting by the Brothers.
Tallulah came from the main cabin to greet her Cousins; The Ice Man and Amara came down from the outbuildings behind; Kai and Kilo were off beyondering for the day.
“We thought all of us coming would be too much,” Adonis said to Amara who was in her Human form as they approached each other, “so we have all come to be too much.” Amara clasped his hands with strength and gratitude. A wide grin lit Adonis’ entire beautiful bronze face as Jazz and Octavia caught up to them, and Django retreated to usher his younger siblings.
“Adonis!” Jazz mockingly scolded as she slapped her Beloved’s muscled arm, the warmth he’d generated through the hiking and the bright Sun drove him to discard his coat and roll up his sleeves. At the sensation of his skin, Jazz returned her hand to rest on Adonis’ forearm as she looked up at him through her lashes with a wink beneath her smiling eyes—to all of which Adonis laughed.
The flurry of hugs and greetings ensued until everyone had made contact, Hector finally gathering little Alora up into his arms, noticing the fatigue from their travels setting in. And though Talullah was unsure if she’d wanted to receive guests, a soft glow of delight gently burst in her Heart, and she smiled as she looked around at the blessings before her.
“I am sure Anahata and Kalea have been in contact, yes? They expect to return in a few month’s time,” Octavia, a rounder, plumper, lighter-skinned version of her twin Sister Jazz, offered, glancing toward Tallulah to gauge her response and extend her Understanding. “I am sorry, Love, about your babe,” she said as she approached the young woman who accepted her words, her touch, her gentle kiss on her forehead as she bowed her head and closed her eyes to receive it.
“We have been linking with them most every evening,” Amara said in answer. “They are always with us.”
“Alexander did not come, but he sent some letters,” Adonis added after a moment, handing a rather crumpled but crisply folded bundle of papers to The Ice Man. “And Duke, well, he remained at the Receiving House to receive, of course, as did Fia. There are more and more Newcomers every day.”
“Thank you, Brother,” The Ice Man said. “I will look at these later,” he continued as he pocketed the papers. “Come, let’s get you settled. You will have to squeeze into the old longhouse as you do every year, but perhaps you can linger for a few days to try out the new dwellings when they are complete—before you return to Veil’s Edge?” The Ice Man invited.
“I will stay!” Mani exclaimed/interjected, clasping his hands. “But now, I am anxious to get building, though!” and he adjusted his deep, worn satchel from which poked some rather large rolls of blueprints. “I need to put these down! Spread them over the table. In the shop, yes?” he asked The Ice Man, raising his bushy eyebrows, to which The Ice Man affirmed with a nod and a “yes.”
“Good, then,” Mani said. “I will do that and come back for more greetings and meetings…or you can find me there…” he continued, excited voice trailing off as he hurried along.
“There will be no slacking now,” Hector said, as he adjusted little Alora who rested her head on his shoulder, sinking deeper into the sturdy comfort of her Father.
“Come now,” Yara said, reminding the group of her quiet, consistent presence. “Let us get you settled as The Ice Man has suggested.”
“We received word about your new babe!” Adonis said to Yara as they made motions to disperse. “Kilo and Shiraz have a brand new Brother! Where is he?”
“Yes, my Friend. He is sleeping inside,” Yara answered, a hint of tenderness in her expression.
“We shall meet him later then,” Adonis asserted, grinning.
“Of course,” was Yara’s reply before the group carried on with their disbursement and settling.
Hector, Octavia, Adonis, Jazz, and most of the children and youth, satchels and rucksacks in tow, headed to The Longhouse with Amara and Tallulah; Yara and The Ice Man headed to the shop to seek out Mani; and Diana, Adonis and Jazz’s third Daughter, set her pack down and followed the warm hum of her HeartString up the trail toward Shiraz who had returned once more to The Mountain that very morning.
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The Ageless Sea
“Did you know that Moona is a Shifter?” Kilo asked Shiraz as they climbed over the rocks on the beach and sat down on one of the large boulders that was relatively dry. Both twins looked over the cresting waves when they sat and settled, the sun a grey orb above them cloaked by a haze of clouds. They had been at Durin’s Cove for three months now and had chosen this rock as one of their favourite Being Spots overlooking the Ageless Sea.

“Of course I did,” Shiraz answered lightly without taking her attention from the horizon over the darkening sea.

“Why did you not say anything? Or at least have intoned to me?” Kilo asked, eyeing his sister’s dreamy profile.

“You figured it out. And was that not fun, figuring it out?” she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

“I suppose,” Kilo reluctantly agreed, smiling to himself at the thought of Moona’s grins and flickers, for he knew Shiraz was right.

“And did you know,” Kilo said after some consideration, that the witches are not Shapeshifters? They ride Dragons but they are not Dragons.”

“Of course I know that,” Shiraz answered, glancing at Kilo, smiling sweetly, then back to the water. “They are Human with Dragon energy. Dragons are Wren and Sparrow’s Anam Cara. I suppose,” Shiraz continued, tapping her lip with her slender pointer finger, “they could have Dragon ancestors, DragonCode in their Spirit DNA,” she said, her eyes brightening at the insight.

“How do you know?!” Kilo asked incredulously, a bit tired of Shiraz always knowing what took him time to discover.

“I listen.”

“Hm, yes,” Kilo conceded, “I suppose you do.”

“With this,” Shiraz clarified, turning her body toward her brother and putting her hand on her Heart, “and this” she finished and placed the same hand on her forehead as she closed her eyes. Then she abruptly turned her attention back to the horizon.

“And the witches do not bring their Dragons because they prefer to pass by way of the Ferry,” Kilo’s last attempt to stump his sister.

“Yes,” Shiraz asserted, turning her head to Kilo, amused at his growing impatience.

“And did your listening without ears tell you that?” Kilo asked, raising his eyebrows, his pitch, the closest he ever got to raising his voice.

“No, that one Uncle Hermod told me last night,” Shiraz said, and both twins laughed, releasing the compression that pressed from the Weather, from the Æther.

“It looks like a storm is brewing,” Kilo said as his expression sobered, flinching at the cold rain that began to spittle down on them, pulling up his hood.

“The wind wants to dance tonight,” Shiraz agreed, feeling the same cool drops on her bare head.

“Let’s find Finn,” Kilo said as they got up to do just that.

—-----------------------------

“Where did those clouds come from?” Finn asked Relic as they tried to steer the boat toward the dock. The wind was suddenly wicked, angered and unleashed, as if it had held its breath for some time before this moment, now releasing its pent up exhale in a gust of rage.

“I don’t know, lad,” Relic answered honestly, having to raise his voice now over the howling wind and the flood of rain falling heavy into the foamy, churning waters. The drops stung as the wind whipped at their faces, ripped Relic’s fisherman’s hat from his head and tossed it into the sea.

“But as I always say, ‘smooth sailing never made a great sailor,’” Reic hollered into the gale, winking to ease his grandson’s mind—but they both knew they were at the mercy of the Weather and much too far from shore.

From the Lighthouse, the twins and Hermod swept the sea for The Freyja and her precious crew, feet anchored to the stone floor, eyes eagerly searching the torrential gloom. They could not tell the sky from the sea, could not find the horizon, sky and land and water a grey-black curtain though it was still an hour short of evening meals and warming fires.

“Be careful on the stone!” Their mother had called after Kilo and Shiraz as they ran toward the steps, intoning but not stopping to assure her that they would. Yara briefly returned to the cabin to throw on her coat and hat and ran to the dock to intercept the man and the boy should they reach the shore there. Amara’s sisters were to meet her, to try to calm the raging squall. No one hunkered in to wait it out—not when some of their own were unaccounted for—and the beach was alive with people searching, organising, praying, their voices and shouts drowned out by the tempest.

By the time the twins reached the top of the cliff and scrambled up the Lighthouse stairs, the storm was in full force, and they were both sick to see the unstoppable violence of the waves, the clouds that swelled and swallowed the world.

“They are out there?” Kilo asked Hermod, hoping it wasn’t true. Hoping…

“Yesth, lad,” Hermod was deeply saddened to confirm. “All we can do now isth sthine the light, guide them, and pray that the windths dethide to calm or move on.”

Finn! Finn! Kilo intoned.

Finn! Shiraz intoned.

Finn heard both twins at once and strangely could intone to both of them simultaneously in two different transmissions as The Field was not bound by the linear boundaries of matter.

Kilo!

Shiraz!

I think we are lost!

“They are to the North, I think! Shine left, yes, Uncle, just a bit more! Closer to the shore!” Kilo exclaimed.

“There! There, Uncle!” Shiraz shouted and pointed as Hermod swept the lantern toward the listing ship, enveloping them in a pool of light.

“The waves are going to push them into the cliff. They are too close, Uncle!” Kilo cried, never having felt panic so intense in all his life, always having been safe, never having felt so useless, so helpless as at that very moment.

The swift and unfeeling sea tossed the boat like a toy. They could only watch as Hermod was swept overboard like a tiny figure on the set of a play. This, Kilo thought, this could not be real.

“GrandDa!” Finn shouted as the boat listed and Relic slid from his grasp, their hands once gripping each other’s forearms now sliding slick from the icy saltwater, enough time to shout, “hold on!”, to lock panicked gazes with the moss green eyes they shared, to say a swift and reluctant “good bye, oh, god no, good bye,” though it happened in a blink. And he was gone. Swept away with the cruel flick of some hand Finn could not see nor understand.

“GrandDaaaaaa!” Finn hollered into the gale, “GrandDaaaaa!” he bellowed and cried and screamed, tears matching the wet and rage of the storm, gripping the side of the boat tighter than he was able to hold on to his GrandDa’s strong arms.

Kilo!

Shiraz!

Finn, you are not alone!

Yara and the witches collided at the dock just as the small boat, the man and boy’s home on the sea, was lifted with one large swell and smashed into the rocks—out of Time as the boat split and went down, swallowed whole by the Ageless Sea as if it had never existed. And with one final gasp of air, Finn was underwater.

Though the sea continued to chun, to hold Finn beneath the surface with the pressure of its immensity, disorienting, up down and down up, as he kicked, his young, strong arms mere reeds against the might of nature, it was quieter, suspended, the cold no longer registering as anything at all.

Here, we do not fear the sea, death is a portal just as is this passageway to the OtherWorlds. But I do fear it, Kilo. I fear it.

At first Finn wanted so desperately for air, for just one moment to fill his bursting lungs once more.

Shiraz, I am afraid…
I do not want to die…
My GrandDa…
I was going to go with Erris…
I wanted to visit your home, to meet your Camaria…

All of these laments came in fragments, in images, pictographs much faster than words. But as they flowed in, they also flowed out along with the need for air. When there was no choice left but to breathe, Finn let his lungs fill with water, ceasing the struggle, surrendering to the sea, then to the sweet release of his body.

His Ego cracked, his unwritten story broke the surface, began to lift out of the waves, the mist forming into a great vessel that sailed into the pinking clouds, Finn at the helm, face forward into the breeze, ready for the voyage through the doorway of clouds that touched the water on either side. Released, his Soul danced on the edge of consciousness, and he understood.

I’m glad I kissed you, Shiraz, the intonation a whisper in her heart. And she felt it, his kiss more warm and soft than it would have felt in the flesh, and her eyelids pressed the heavy tears from her eyes as she closed them.

Somehow the twins understood, too, but were not yet ready to accept. Their grief was not gentle as they had always known existence to be, but tore through them, ripping their sails, skewing their compass, confounding and confusing, yanking up what anchored them to Home, the North dark and devoid of all the stars in it. The story they were writing together smeared and torn, sinking to the ocean floor.

And they did not understand the ending.

It’s All Right, Finn whispered. His confirmation, the sensations he whispered, healing them just ever so softly even now, calming enough to keep them from dying, too.

But Finn, we promised someday.

Brother, my brother, I need you.

My Friends, my Anam Cara, you will not be alone.

The three in the Lighthouse ran down to the shore, hurried along the rocks, and down to the North of the dock, the wreckage having been washed up with the last gusts of the storm, the now rhythmic lapping of the waves.

Voices, and there were voices, Shiraz realised, “Finn! Relic!” calling and calling, and one of those voices was Kilo’s. One of those voices was her own.

And there was Relic, Moona and Hermod already kneeling at the side of his still and lifeless body.

Settling for a moment to close their eyes and listen, Shiraz and Kilo felt into what they could not see. They both opened their eyes to land on Finn where he had been spit carelessly onto the shore several metres up the coast. Time moved slowly as they ran to his side, both gathering him, holding him as if their embrace could rock him back from his breathless slumber. Kilo held and pulled him into their laps. Shiraz stroked his grey face, his wet, matted curls away from his forehead, Kilo beside her silently crying. And their mother was there, her hands on their shoulders, Wren and Sparrow, standing above them. Then carefully, when they were ready and needed them to help, Wren picked the boy up as if he were a child, his face, the lips Shiraz had kissed warm and soft just yesterday, cold and blue, his necklace of gems and treasures hanging from his neck, and carried him Home.

—-------------------

That night, trembling, the poet, Shiraz, spilled the ink as freely as her tears on the book she snatched from her satchel, for the first time in her life both sorrow and anger raging through her very being, bearing a wound so raw and gaping not even words could stitch it closed. Not yet. But still, she wrote…for Finn…

…for a few frantic minutes I write because these thoughts will pass unless I catch them, catch you, slippery as a fish in the sea, the words a spreading stain seeping through the paper, raw, wrapped up like the day’s catch, but the net could not hold you here, so you are released into the sea, and my hands come up wet and empty. How can this be? How can this be? How can this be?

Shiraz burst through the door and out into the blue-grey night. The screaming wail that rose from her throat was answered by the wolves, one at a time, until all 7 ringed the yard, howling with her.

“Mamaaaaa?!” Shiraz, hand stained with ink and cheeks with tears, screamed at the Moon as she stood barefoot in the stones, her lovely round face a storm of agony.

“Mama?” she questioned Yara when her mother came out to hold her, until she was limp and hoarse with the aftermath of grief. Kilo watched out the window with Moona and Hermod on either side, consoling him, Loving him, and each other, tears falling silently one by one by one. Even the rhythmic lapping of the waves could not console them.
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Invisible Ink
Kage was rattled, agitated, yet with an air of determination about him when he returned to Camaria that morning. As they prepared their breakfast in their glossy, new white kitchen, he told her about the mother, the children, the bullish woman, the cold and cruel Enforcer. But he did not tell her what he’d been doing there—that he had lowered himself to the ranks of Citizen, no matter how temporarily he played that role.

He knew Camaria wouldn’t judge him—he didn’t even think she understood what it was to judge—but his shame overshadowed his longing to let her see what it was that made him so weak. Although Camaria sensed into him as far as he would allow, although she understood what was unspoken, Kage could not speak it to her, could not even whisper it into her ear, though her beautiful head was tilted and waiting.

So, their day was spent on other things—Kage locked away in his office, and Camaria set out to the fields, finding herself wandering further and further until the sun cooled and lowered itself into the horizon and she reached the road that led to The Fringe of the city. She kept walking, intoned to Kage that she would be home before the Moon hit its pinnacle, to which he sent back a distracted mmmmhmmmm.

Camaria tuned into her surroundings, into the city, just to be sure. She needed to go back, to touch base with her own space, and she trusted she would be safe. Without incident, she slipped through the flayed hole in the fence, padded quietly down the back roads, as quiet and as confident as a lioness.

The Apartment was dark—quiet and empty—when she let herself in. Without current Envoys to occupy and care for it, dust had started to settle on the shelves, the books, the table where she brushed the canvases with the first paintings she’d created in the realm. The particles were illuminated in the moonlight as she ran her hands over the surfaces, cleaning, revealing, liberating the thin coating that marked a Time in emptiness. The place patiently waited, always available to her, to her people, to receive and to shelter.

She observed how she’d left it—the emerald-flecked fireplace that warmed them, the couch where she and Kage fell into each other and into Love, the shelves and drawers, things neatly stacked and folded, organised and prepared for the next inhabitants.

As she approached the book-lined shelves, her hands pulled a few volumes from the shelf. She leafed through the pages, pages she had poured over when she was alone in The Apartment—absorbing, learning, sharing the experience expressed within the pages. The books held the history of all the realms, their chronicles, their recorded records. The ink was invisible to The Empire—for if The Empire could not see the power of the words, they would not bother to destroy them, and those who were Sighted would not wish to destroy. To the Unsighted eye, the pages appeared to be empty—the meaning, the form, the lines of the writing a blank page.

Kage could not see the words, had puzzled over this the day they had witnessed the man being killed in the alley behind The Apartment. Camaria had chosen not to explain why the ink was not visible to him as there were Truths he had to come to on his own, when he was ready, in his own Time.

When she was finished and full, Camaria touched the books and reverently replaced them onto the shelf for the next Envoy to decode and absorb.

—-------------

The Moon was at its pinnacle when Camaria slipped through the field and returned through the back door of the kitchen, pulled, reeled in, by Kage’s insistent tugging. Kage’s pacing stopped when she entered, and he strode to her, grasping her by the arms.

“Where were you?”

“In the city.”

“Why would you go there?

“I went to The Apartment. To be there for a Time. I told you I would be back when the Moon…”

“What? No….Yes, I guess you did, but I was distracted…I didn’t think you would go to the city. Maybe the garden, our little forest, maybe…”

“I’m sorry I worried you,” Camaria said with sincerity, seeking his eyes with her own to steady him.

“Sorry you worried me? Camaria, don’t you understand? You could have been caught and killed. You still don’t have Papers.”

“Anyone can make Papers, Kage. I can make my own.”

“No, Camria, you can’t. This isn’t a game.”

“But it is, Kage. And I wish to be Free.”

“Listen to me, Camaria,” Kage said, his grip strong but gentle on her arms, understanding filling the cavity carved by the blade of potential loss, “leave that to me. This world, it’s nothing like where you came from,” he told her, pulling her to his chest in an embrace where she could hear his thudding heart. “It’s brutal. It doesn’t care about us. Please just let me take care of you. I promise, I’ll figure something out.”

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Snake Pit
The next evening, there was a loud abrupt banging on the door of The Apartment that broke through the animated conversation Camaria and Kage were having over a late supper and a fire. Kage jumped up to answer the door, but sensing discontent yet no immediate danger, Camaria moved past him, opening it before Kage could assume to take charge.

“I've got it Kage,” she assured over her shoulder, then turned to who had demanded their attention through such a loud and rude thumping.

On the concrete step stood a man about Kage’s age who was visibly under the influence of perhaps more than one substance. He was draping his arm over a woman in the same state, her black, stringy hair hanging, dark eyes heavily encircled in smudged black makeup that did little to hide the red rims. The opening door seemed to have interrupted their shared laughter. They turned to look at Camaria, and although they looked amused, behind the giggling they were somewhat vacant, a little mean, like they might bite.

The man proceeded to look Camaria up and down, then his gaze moved past her to where Kage was now standing a few feet behind. Recognition brightened his face, but his smile was sly.

“Kage my friend, brother, comrade, aren't you going to let us in?” he exclaimed, looking back to Camaria who looked back to Kage, questioning.

“No, Camaria,” Kage said, not taking his eyes off of the man, “don't let him in.”

“Ahhh Kage, don't be like that,” the man said unaffected and unsurprised by Kage’s cold rejection.

“Camaria, just close the door. Iago, get the fuck out of here.”

“It's fine, Kage. If you know him, it's fine.” Camaria said, sensing mild danger but her curiosity, the desire for peace winning her over. Kage said nothing, but Camaria felt something within him become coiled, tight, ready to strike.

At her invitation, Iago entered with a drunken nod and mocking bow to Camaria slurring, “thank you, milady,” as he passed. The woman who entered with him, now hanging on his arm, laughed and curtsied.

Camaria stepped aside to let them in, but Kage remained at attention, expression on his chiselled face, tight—and for the first time Camaria saw his eyes go completely black.

“How did you find me?” Kage hissed.

“I have my ways,” Iago answered, and the men eyed each other briefly. “Ah, I’m being rude! You remember Bramble don't you?” Kage eyed him suspiciously, looked at the woman with disdain, and then looked back to Iago.

“No, I don't.” Camaria could sense the truth in Kage’s words, but Iago’s intent confused her. He was playing, but the game was not light, the rules were not clear.

“She might look different to you with all her clothes on,” Iago said with a grin. “This is Bramble, from the Snake Pit. You do remember the Snake Pit, the club where we spent most of our youth…well, up until about 6 months ago, actually…”

“What do you want, Iago?” Kage hissed again, jaw working.

“How about a drink to start?” Iago volleyed.

“We have tea, some coffee, if you would like. Please sit down,” Camaria invited, attempting to defuse the palpable, growing tension.

“Why not?” Iago said, even more amused. “I am a little chilled by the walk over. Bramble, how about you, my darling?”

“Yesss,” the woman replied, trying to focus on his face as she swayed hypnotically. But they did not sit.

“Now I see where you've been all this time, why you haven't been around. You're holed up here with this pretty little number,” Iago said to Kage who puffed up more.

“I will ask you one more time: what do you want, Iago?” Kage said, warning lacing his words.

“Oh, come on now Kage, can't you take a joke?” Iago said, his smile wider now. “Is it so strange for an old friend to come calling?”

Camaria felt into Iago and his friend and was overcome with the slithering of a pit of snakes, the fangs dripping poison. She was surprised to feel the same in Kage in response.

Suddenly trying to sound sincere, Iago broke the silence: “We’ve missed you. The guys, and the girls,” he said, looking briefly at Camaria, “have been asking where you’ve been, and now I can tell them.”

“Leave her out of this,” Kage warned, “I'm not coming back,” his voice menacing and low now.

Undeterred, Iago looked at Camaria then down to where her long cardigan sweater had slipped aside from her growing belly and burst out with a guffaw.

“Fuck, me! Kage! You’ve finally done it! Oh, this is just perfect!” He laughed out loud then, and his arm charm joined in. “You never could keep that cock…”

“Get. The fuck. Out. Before I kill you, Iago.” And Camaria felt that he absolutely meant it—they all sensed this, and Iago stopped smiling.

To Camaria’s surprise, Iago compiled, casually moving back to the front door—less amused, meaner now.

“You’ll be back, Kage. You could never stay away. If I don’t see you at the Snake Pit, I’ll see you in the Trading (Staking) House. We still have business.” He bowed to them both, amused once more, and Bramble gave another curtsy as Camaria moved to open the door. They left laughing into the darkness of the streets.

Kage stood for some minutes, shaking with rage which covered up the fear, thoroughly rattled by Iago’s rattling. Camaria knew this was not the time for questions for she understood enough for now. It took some time for her to coax him onto the couch, for her to soothe him with rhythmic strokes of her hand over his soft, freshly shaven cheeks.

“It is All Right, Kage. It is All Right. It is All Right,” she soothed. Finally he blinked, looked at her, softened a bit. He put his hand on her belly, the other grasped (gripped?) her cheek.

“We’re getting the fuck out of here, Camaria. The three of us.”

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A Nest of Hornets
When Kage arrived home, it was late. Their four little girls tucked tight in their beds, the melody of their clear young voices still singing Camaria through her time at the sink as she finished up the dishes. She smiled thinking of them, wanting to put her hand to the two growing inside, but her hands were wet with warm suds. Safe. Sound. Sound asleep. Held so close to their mother’s heart, a bubble she painted around them with song and stories and cuddles that blotted out the outside noise, so close that they did not see nor hear what was becoming of their father.
Their father. Kage. Once she would have painted him in slick blacks and golds—mysterious, exciting, brilliant, bold. But tonight he was blurred lines, a vibrating cacophony of buzzing if one dared to get their hand close enough to paint such a sound.
She felt rather than heard him enter. Their thread twinged as he emerged from the tavern, it twisted as he wove himself home, it became taut and hot as he strode into the kitchen—tight but not still, vibrating, buzzing. That incessant buzzing. The connection more like a stinger than a flame.
“Hello?” he said to her back, leaning on the doorway, words slightly slurred. Camaria knew that tonight, again, he was not himself; Kage, himself, unaware of the bodysnatching. Because tomorrow nothing would be said about anything that would happen tonight. Two Kages who claimed to have never met.
Camaria could feel what was coming. She knew what he was thinking, though he crackled through the loose wire. It didn’t take a clear connection for that. Just a repeating memory of so many nights just like this. The past continuing to create their future.
“How was your day?” Kage asked her, not leaving the doorway.
“Very good, thank you,” Camaria answered, looking over her shoulder to briefly meet his dark eyes as she spoke. That seemed to appease him, and he pushed off of the doorway and made his way to her place before the sink. From behind he slid his arms around her waist and rested his hands on her belly as she continued to wash the already clean pot.
His chin fell to her shoulder, and she tried to bypass the smell of liquor on his breath, tried to breathe in the scent of him, but it was masked, overwhelmed, as was she, frozen in this pattern. Washing, washing, washing. She wanted to lean back into him, tell him about her day like she had before, for the years they’d been together until he started to block her those months ago. She tried to find his trail, some small footprint left in the mud. But the landmines had been set, and so she danced…
She wanted to tell him she was tired, but well. That yoga with Johanna and Sinead helped so much with the growing pressure in her back and how the kids played in the grass as they practised in The Barn. She wanted to tell him that Sinead’s little Arek, with his halo of blonde curls, and their Indigo, watching with her sea green eyes, joined them for shavasana at the end, crowing about how they liked “the laying down” the best out of all the yoga poses.
A small laugh escaped her lips without warning at the memory.
“What?” Kage asked her, smiling, turning her to face him, her hands still wet and soapy.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, squirming slightly to the side to dry her hands on the towel.
“Tell me,” he baited, his lovely smile spreading wider. And she hoped.
“Just the kids at Johanna's today. How they had such a lovely day.”
“What else does she do all day besides yoga and making those silly hats?” Kage said, a scoff in his voice. Camaria stiffened, but tried to stay with him. Tried to stay in his arms, tried to dance in the minefield.
“We are blessed to have her service. The kids…Arek and Indigo…”
“Sinead was there? With that strange little boy of hers?” he interrupted. Kage was so good at dangling his shiny lure, a lazy plunk into the water was all it took for her to swim up and bite.
“He is not strange, Kage. You know this. He is just quiet. He is a sweet boy, a good friend to our girls,” Camaria countered, backing out of Kage’s embrace just as he let her go. “I think someone has been unkind to him, but I cannot quite see who or what…the fog around him is so thick.”
“That’s not your problem,” Kage said flatly.
“He is not a problem,” taken aback, a small, weak breath against his mounting strike, his serpent’s tongue flicking out, probing, sensing.
“You just stay in your little fantasy world with the kids and your little paintings,” Kage hissssssed, a spitting warning, an attempt to soothe the grief he silenced with venom.
She could say nothing, conceding to sit amongst the mines rather than dance. She was just so tired.
“You can’t save everyone, Camaria. You can’t save anyone.”
Turning, he took a glass from the rack where it was still drying, reached up to retrieve the bottle from the cupboard above Camaria’s head, and was gone into the living room.
Camaria stood, hands empty at her sides, having anticipated this but stunned as always, as yesterday, as so many yesterdays now, by the precision and speed of the strike.
You can’t save me.
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In the Beginning
Anahata and Kalea evanesced into the Western Realm the day before The Beginning. They knew where they intended to travel and passed through The Bardo easily, having been frequent Travellers, straddling the Realms before Camaria was even conceived. The distortion of the West still disoriented them as they entered though, but did not deter from the Magick of that Moonlit night when they appeared on Camaria and Kage’s doorstep bright and tinkling as ribboned, tattooed, pierced, and bangled angels in the snow.
When Kage opened the door to let Camaria’s parents enter, he was struck by the lightning they crackled with—two brilliant stars that fell into their cold and silent yard. It was very much like the day Camaria arrived, the only bright thing in the whole of Slumber City. Kage knitted his brow standing somewhat stunned for a few moments attempting to make Sense of what washed over him. He felt as well as observed the parents of his Beloved, his child’s GrandParents, the deep and braided roots of their growing family tree. The words—alive, electric, spark, magick—flickered in his mind, and he shook his head to dismiss them.
He is wounded, Anahata intoned to Kalea.
He is lavender, Kalea intoned to Anahata.
They agreed that he was beautiful and smiled at the Father of their becoming GrandBaby.
All signs that the Moment was nearing were upon her. For two days now, Camaria was interrupted in the midst of painting, dishes, conversation, with painless, consistent contractions of her womb in practice for labour. Kage placed his hand on her abdomen as it hardened like a shell and marvelled at the intensity. Camaria laughed and surrendered to the tightening and the blessed release, yet by the end of day two, she told their Daughter to come already. We are ready when you are.
Babes in the East were born at home surrounded and supported by their Loved Ones, and their Affirmaries were solely a temporary place to assist the wounded who needed assistance as they healed. In the West, most babes were birthed at home, as well, but only because Class 3s were no longer permitted assistance in The Infirmaries for any reason having since been declared by The Empire as reserved for the upper classes. The art of midwifery had been lost in favour of medicalization, and when the Empire neglected to provide, they no longer remembered what had not been passed down.
Class 3s did, however, entirely make up the body of Nuthouse inmates—the Nuthouses being an extension of the Incarceration Units—where The Establishment warehoused The Broken, to keep their shattered pieces from littering the streets.
Kage had said that they could pay for The Infirmary, concerned because the mortality rate of the women and babes was exceptionally high, Mother and/or child succumbing to some kind of infection or complication or the commonplace occurrence of abandonment, lack, and neglect. Many Mothers bled out alone. Malnourished babies failed to thrive.
Camaria would have none of it, though, having attended the births of many children in her community, the space and process sacred. In any case, she was in no way infirm and couldn’t fathom why she would birth in such a stark and sterile place. Her parents would be assisting them, and Yara, Shiraz, Zen, and all of her Aunts would be present in the Astral Layer to bear her through the birthing.
So, the morning after Kalea and Anahata’s arrival, along with the dawn, Camaria’s waters broke, and the contractions came with another purpose—this time to aid the babe’s expected/anticipated/imminent descent, each one widening a portal.
The four of them spent all day in conversation and quiet activity—sipping tea and touring around Camaria and Kage’s home, observing and discussing Camaria’s paintings, listening to Kage speak what fragments he’d share about his work, his life—while Camaria’s body set to active labouring.
The first ones can take their Time, Kalea assured her, and this Daughter was in no hurry.
Camaria felt for Kilo through their thread.
I am here, Camaria, Kilo intoned at the summons, then moved into the periphery out of respect for the privacy of Camaria and Kage’s intimate moment.
When night came, Camaria paced the floor with the increasing intensity and frequency of the contractions, and each time pain struck, she squatted low, Kage crouching down beside her to rub her back as she breathed through—releasing, working with them, with gravity, allowing for the opening just as she had witnessed The Mothers do.
For several hours, Camaria rode the swells of what was not quite nausea that accompanied each great squeezing and each blessed release, at first standing to walk in between contractions, when she needed to move, when she was able to do so.
When the waves began to crash into one another with no pauses, no resting, Camaria stayed squatting, close to the ground as they came faster—the tightening, release, tightening, release—an intense stretching with the pressure of the babe pressing low in her cradle bone.
The compression of her Daughter’s head awakened, developed, evolved the babe as she descended into the canal—engaged, locked and loaded for release into the world. As Love embodied, the weight of her pulled Camaria from the world, her life, her self, and words dissolved into primal sounds that passed through her lips, the ooohs and ahhhs of the wounding and the becoming and the beginning. (was listening to this as I polished this scene: https://music.apple.com/ca/album/day-1-the-path-of-the-fossils/1482345109?i=1482345354)
Camaria ceased to think, her body Knowing, the process encoded in her very cells, the echoes of The Mothers, of all The Other Mothers rippling through her—and she surrendered. Each of The Mothers had passed through the threshold alone but never alone, bearing down, contractions and pressure intensifying as the babe insisted on becoming.
When she could move again, it was time, and Kage and Kalea helped Camaria slip off her robe and lower herself into the water that lifted the weight of her great and ripe belly, holding Mother and Babe buoyant and effortless.
Floating, she slept, was thrust into wakefulness, slept again…she fumbled for the glass to drink, Kage lifted it to her mouth…he was not tired, he was strong. He climbed into the Ocean of water and held them as they bobbed through every wave.
And what were they saying to her, some other language? Camaria did not know if she cared—all there was was the tiny rock, the pearl, the egg, the letter she carried careful careful careful not to tear or crumple, not to drop it…she sank into the waters until all they could see were her eyes and they were closed, they were closed, turned in and down, hair floating around her like snakes of seaweed.
After the pulling, after the waves tossed her, after she surrendered herself to their rhythm, let herself sink into the depths of the churning water, let herself drown, pulled deep into the darkness, after she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, that it would never end, turning in circles with no way out, there was something sharp, the first cut/tear/ripping, the blessed release of the wounding…
Do not forget, Camaria, hear us, The Mothers said…and she suddenly Understood what their mouths were forming, the long and primordial oooohs and ahhhhs as she released herself from the grip of pain, of all Pain, as she opened with wave after wave, expanding with each contracting…when there was nothing but the suspension of darkness, when she sank further and further from the light, when she thought she would die, she did.
And then, and then, when her head broke the surface, and she was carried by the ebbing under The Moon, a soft light to be born into, the first cry of birth was not sounded by her babe alone, but the both of them. Camaria’s first breath as a Mother was not a gasp but a sweet and glorious exultation. There were no words.
So, their Daughter was born, slipped as a seal into the tub of water beside their bed. In the beginning, when he heard the first cry, the first sound, when their Daughter and his Beoved fiercely crowed their way into existence, Kage’s Heart soared with pride. Was this joy? he marvelled. Was this the Love Camaria had always spoken about?
Someone placed the babe into Camaria’s arms and cleared the mucus from her mouth and nose. The placenta was birthed into the pool, the cord still attached to deliver to the babe the blood that nourished her every cell and organ, her bright and brilliant brain, as her parents and grandparents marvelled and quietly celebrated her arrival. And only when this process was complete did they clamp and have Kage gently cut the cord.
Kage helped Camaria out of the pool, carefully dried her, and wrapped her in a robe. She put on some undergarments and strips of cotton for the bleeding, and Kage helped her to the bed as Kalea and Anahata dried, checked over, and swaddled their Grandest of Babies. And when Camaria was settled, propped and comfortable in a nest of soft blankets and pillows, Anahata placed the babe in her Mother’s arms. Only then did Kage dry and redress himself.
“Oh, Love”, Camaria breathed and intoned, all pain forgotten, all reason for existence wrapped into this tiny bundle. Kage sat with them, careful not to jostle the bed, and a few moments passed as the four of them memorised the babe’s tiny squished face. Kalea gently approached, gathered the babe from Camaria, and placed her in Kage’s arms.
“Here she is, Papa,” Kalea said. After a brief pang of both surprise and fear, and with his Beloveds as his witness, for the first time Kage cried with the overwhelm of the joy that comes with the witnessing of a miracle. He didn’t stop or hide the tears that Camaria watched slip from his bright lavender eyes, saltwater droplets wetting the corners of his beautiful smile.
The night pulled its black sheet from the sky. They were already changed, The Mothers. They were preparing to depart, to splinter, no, defuse (break away, unravel) from each other. It was time for sleep. It had been a long day. The new babes were bundled, arms wrapped tight to tiny bodies, each pouch a cocoon. It is good this way, like it was before, inside of Mother.

Camaria found herself alone amidst The Mothers sleepily moving along the beach. All moved in their own circles, crossing paths, sometimes moving parallel. She stopped at The Book, alone she turned the pages, the last of the salt water dripping from her hair. She read the writing, read and read, and wrote her own words with ink in the margins. She circled passages, added checkmarks, fastened her own pages with tree sap. She drew little pictures of fish and shapes like circles or eggs, o-shaped mouths for speech or pain. All except the slow pull and push, pull and push of the water, The Other Mothers’ quiet humming and low talking, was quiet, her babe asleep in the crook of her arm.
It was The Beginning. The very first light smeared the cool blue sky with coral and tangerine, rolled along the water, a shimmering carpet, and was met by the softest puff of breath from the babe’s sleeping lips. The Mother finally lay down on the sand between the rocks, placed her babe in the C of her body. It was time to sleep now, to Dream, to slip away into tomorrow.

She was already changed. Her body an empty sack, loose and stitched and damaged. It would heal, it would heal, but it would never be the same, she would never be the same. It was slow there, Time was slow, it was repeating, everything repeating like her Heart’s muffled thump, squeezed and squeezed with a tiny fist.
She wanted to sit with her babe, with her creation, and held her light and delicate as a snowflake, her Heart on the outside, a little bird with fine bird bones. And she was a Mother as if she had always been a Mother, as if there was no self before this birth, of the babe, of herself, wet and shivering, spit onto the shore from the belly of Mama Ocean. Spit onto the shore inside out.

She was healing, though, from the unforgiving process of birth, from the speed at which it overtook her, turning her eyes inward. For the first time she was deliberately gentle and delicate with herself. Took time to clean and wash and slowly dress, yes, even to feed herself. And she was hungry, very hungry, wanted milk and thick warm broths. She wanted water, more water, water so cool ice floated in little slivers on the top. She ate all the other Mothers brought her, what Kage offered, wanted more. They brought more.
For the first time, for the only time, for the last time, she was kind to herself, for the last time she was slow and patient with herself. The Other Mothers told her always to take those moments, to take them even when the babe is growing, even when the babe needs more. But they knew. They knew she would not. She would give everything, with an open hand. Her Heart on the outside. Didn't they all? Even the ones whose babes were lost to the sea, even The Mothers who themselves floated out or were washed away?

She was new, as well. Her babe had given her herself, inside out, but whole—soft, sensitive to the tiniest breeze. She was listening to the sounds she’d never listened for before. Time was repeating. As it always was in the beginning, all was still and quiet, quiet still. The Mother listened, nestled in winter’s rocking cradle.
The Mother held the small wet thing, not sure what to say, not sure she wanted to say anything. Her silence soft against the backdrop of Mama Ocean’s music. The Moon watched quietly, blowing her soft light on the scene before her. In her mind she thought to name it, but nothing she knew before would do. Everything was different now. This small wet thing was so much more than she could have imagined. “Baby,” she said, the word exploding with soft, round, delicate tones. As if she spoke the revelation for the first time. As if the word was as wet and new and alive as what she cradled to her skin, held to her breast. As if she finally Understood what it meant.
—-----------------------------
The next days would be slow, and Kage, Kalea, and Anahata would tend to Camaria as she mended. Though bliss would wash over her, pain would rip through her in intervals as her womb contracted back to its former size, and she would wince with it. And when her milk-drunk baby fell sleeping from her full and tender breasts, her nipples would be raw from the feeding. Yet none of that would matter, the pain of being. She could endure it, for Camaria knew it wouldn’t last, that the pain would fade, overridden by the undercurrent of bliss, and she would heal from these things, too. From all things.
—-----------------
As they left the new Mama and Papa to be alone with their babe, Anahata and Kalea heard cries of another kind ring out a world away.
Yara felt through their thread for her Anam Cara; Amara’s vibrations intoned as guttural howls.
With every birth there is a death—this is a law of nature…
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SECTION BREAK
LIFELINES AND FRIENDSHIP
Naming Molina
In the tender days after the birth of Camaria and Kage’s daughter, Kalea, Anahata, and Kage took good care of Camaria as she convalesced, her body mending and adjusting, as they all made space and room, an external incubator for their precious new arrival.
Camaria had known Kage to be gentle, yes, but she had never witnessed him so completely enraptured with the task of caregiving, with the pure intention of Love. He wanted for nothing, deft hands careful when he changed the babe’s nappies and bathed her with soft washcloths, when he helped Camaria to and from the bath, washed her hair, pulled the covers over her shoulders before walking the new babe while his Beloved slept. They coexisted in their bed, their newborn safe in the “C” of Camaria’s body, Kalea and Anahata in the room across the hall.
In the quiet moments and in the private recesses of the house, Camaria would come upon them, Kage singing softly to his daughter, Camaria realising she had never heard him sing before. Not once. And his voice was soft yet deep as if a secret he spoke only to this little being, a secret she kept as she peered at her Father through eyes Kage delighted were just like her mother’s.
The presence of Kalea and Anahata aided them in their surrender to the transformation of parenthood, to the slowness and the sinking—the only marker, the only keeping of Time, being the needs, the clocks, of the Mother and the Child. The honour and the gift of it was the returning to them of that very time, the returning to them the life that would have been consumed by the machinery of things that don’t, in the end, and in the beginning, fundamentally matter. This, this was all that mattered, all that made any sense, and not one of them could imagine life before her arrival, as is usually the case with births and babies.
There was a name that whispered in Camaria’s realm of recollection, buried somewhere deep within the recesses of her history and future, ready for excavation. Was it a name that came from someone she had met before? Was it spoken to her in a story? Was it the beginning of a new story that was yet to be written? Although those questions rose within her, she knew that it was all of it—a memory, a story, a possibility, a purpose. The name was a simple one, grounding and rooting, connected to the earth and its sustenance, in relationship with GaiSophia, creating from the most rudimentary of elements. It was a strong and steady name for the diligent, the hardworking, the consistent, the resilient. And Camaria knew that her daughter held that very promise both for the embodiment and the example.
A sturdy, grounded name, Camaria thought and smiled softly as she and her daughter gazed at each other. Yara will like it, she intoned to her babe.
So, when Molina was 60 days old, when the ground was finally soft enough to sow, the temperature mild enough to sustain new life, Camaria, Kage, Kalea, and Anahata planted both the placenta they’d preserved for this very occasion, and a seed.
Pictures and sensations overcame the quartet as they stood in the melting snow, each recalling their own private connections. Of course there were flashes of Camaria’s leaving, Camaria and Kage’s intersection, Molina’s conception…yet, before even that, of childhood and of Kilo and of Camaria seeking him out in the trees; of Kage’s mother, of his first experiences of tenderness, of the atrium that was both a portal and a prison…the visions rewound further, to Anahata and Kalea’s time in Eden, to The Viper and The Fawn, of Camaria’s own birth, of Kage’s own sorrowful slipping into the world…In another TimeStream, the seed was already a many-ringed Memory Tree, its bough's bowing and yielding yet holding as Molina’s legs pumped her higher and higher; then in another, Kage, now bearded and greying, plucking a small but sweet apple from its branches.
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Welcome, and all set!
Stay tuned for announcements!
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Veil's Edge AudioBook Experience
Book 1: The Seed
Part 1: Pandora's Gifts
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Carla Maria Atherton · Veil's Edge Book 1: The Seed; Part 1: Pandora's Gifts by Carla Maria Atherton
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The Womb of the North
Later in the clearing where the snow was worn and thin exposing the hard tundra beneath his soft-booted feet, Kilo felt Amara’s exquisite, magnificent presence as he practised his slow and careful movements. His aunt was the embodiment of the ease of survival in the extremes. And it did not make him warm as did his mother Yara’s embrace, but it did soothe him very deeply, slowed him down to each and every precise ripple of a muscle—her back and shoulders as she prowled on the periphery, his legs and torso as he moved in meditation.

Amara’s presence placed him squarely in acceptance—acceptance of the Cycle and nature of life in seemingly harsh circumstances. She both observed and protected so Kilo could lose himself in his meditation, in his silent contemplation, of his ever-expansion within the womb of the North.

Amara once said to Kilo as they ate a late supper, everyone in their Human form, The Ice Man, Talullah, and Kai laughing about something his uncle had said, Amara and Kilo sharing a quiet side moment at their end of the table: “Life is much simpler, Kilo, Life makes more sense, in my animal form—yet I Love my Humans. I deeply Love my Humans.”

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Snake Oil
When they were at the highest point on the wheel, Camaria could see the entire land, the 360 degree horizon that encircled them, the dark grey areas where the black sky met the earth, the clusters of lights where cities and settlements dotted the landscape. She contemplated the people, their activities, the rides they chose anticipating their enjoyment yet not always enjoying. Some people ran from ride to ride to experience every last one, some rode the ones that thrilled them over and over again, some were dragged on to ride with their Loved Ones, some were exhilarated, some terrified, some chose not to ride at all: afraid, or content to watch, or too afraid to step foot.
Camaria had no desire to ride any of the others, she realised, as the horizon became hidden with each plunging of the wheel and came into sight with each exhilarating ascent. Her belly fluttered with the motion, and she watched the exhilaration in Johanna’s expression, the deep contemplation in John’s, and the rising panic in Kage’s with the quickening of his breath, which was an extremely rare occurrence for her Beloved, the man who remained cool even when he was most heated.
As she walked the midway with Johanna and John after Kage’s swift departure, Camaria reflected on how each ride could be experienced so vastly different for each rider, for they all were, after all, on the very same Wheel of Samsara, were they not? And as they wove through the sea of people, a sequence of images, of emotions, flashed with each person who bumped into her as they passed.
Shaken from her thoughts with the most recent collision with a man who muttered “sorry,” then disappeared down the midway, Camaria looked up to spy a quiet venue she hadn’t yet taken notice of, even though the tent was a flashy bright white. The wooden sign that hung on a post before the door flaps read ‘TruthTeller’, and unlike most of the venues, there was no line of people waiting for their turn inside.
“I want to have a look in that one,” Camaria told Johanna and John who had their eye on the carousel. “You go on ahead. I will meet you at the circling horses.”
“Are you sure?” Johanna asked. “We could come in with you.”
“I am sure,” Camaria answered, which seemed to satisfy her friend. Johanna grabbed John’s hand, who appeared to be letting go a little of the reins he held on fun. And Camaria’s Heart sang a song for them as they ran off together.
Camaria lifted the flap, and inside sat the TruthTeller on a single stool, although he did not look like a TruthTeller but a Salesman peddling his wares. He did not wear robes or a mask or a bedazzled silken hat but simple trousers and a long-sleeved shirt devoid of even the adornment of buttons. Camaria could not guess at his age, though she knew that didn’t really matter in any case.
“Come in,” the Salesman welcomed, as Camaria ducked into the tent.
“What is it you are seeking?” he asked.
“I am not seeking anything, just taking notice,” was Camaria’s reply.
“Well, that’s perfect then,” the Salesman said, green eyes twinkling, nodding his balding head in approval.
“What is it you are selling?” Camaria asked the man.
“Potions, poisons, oils, tinctures, perfumes, and medicines of all kinds,” the Salesman informed her, gesturing toward the single table where various bottles of all shapes and sizes sat awaiting discovery.
“I will not make promises or spin tales about my wares. So, ask your questions, and I will give you the Truth. You can Make the story.”
“That works,” Camaria agreed.
“It does,” the Salesman said as he drew Camaria’s attention to his concoctions and decoctions.
“Here,” the salesman said, handing Camaria a rather old looking bottle grimed with oily dust, “rub this below each lobe of your ears.”
“What is it?” Camaria asked, turning the bottle over in her hands but not making any move to open it or follow the Salesman’s instruction.
“What if I were to tell you it was snake venom?” he asked her, mischief flaring behind his green eyes.
“Then I might think it was harmful. That you Meant to harm me,” Camaria postulated.
“What if I were to tell you it was clove oil?” he asked.
“Then I might think it was seductive, that you Meant to seduce me,” Camaria answered, and the Salesman had a chuckle at that.
“What if I were to tell you that it was snake piss?” was his third question.
“Then I would be confused,” Camaria admitted. “That sounds neither pleasant nor medicinal.”
“And you would be right about that!” the Salesman declared, happy to have been gifted a formidable student. “And your deductions about my intent, they are very wise—but what about the intent of the contents, the potions, themselves? What do they intend?”
“That is a strange question,” Camaria mused, feeling into the contents of the bottle in her hand more closely.
“I know. It is,” the Salesman agreed.
“I suppose it intends,” Camaria ventured, “whatever the giver intends.”
“Hm, I suppose there is that. But moreso, it intends whatever the receiver believes,” he said pointedly, then waved an open hand over his display of bottles once more.
“You pick your poison, or you pick your medicine, you decide,” he offered. “So, do you want my snake venom?” he asked as he held up another bottle quite like the one Camaria held.
“No,” Camaria answered without hesitation.
“Do you want my clove oil?” he asked as he pointed at yet another similar bottle.
“Kage’s will do, thank you,” she answered.
“Do you want my snake piss?” he asked, offering one more bottle.
“Certainly not,” Camaria answered, and the Salesman chuckled again, then sobered somewhat.
“I do not peddle wares with false promises. I do not claim to cure those who can cure themselves. The Truth is that my potions have no power, unless, of course, you believe they do, and in that belief you give them their power, and you determine their potency. Not many want to Know that,” he confided. “They want to believe that my bottles contain their cures even when they Know it’s only piss. I could become rich on people’s self-deceipt. So, there you have it, the Truth. I am indeed a poor Salesman in all Ways and Meanings.”
“I feel you must be one of the best,” Camaria said.
“Then do you want that snake oil?” the Salesman asked, cocking a brow, referring to the bottle in her hand.
“What is snake oil, exactly?” she asked.
“Whatever you think it is,” which was, of course, his answer.
“Then, yes. I think I will have it,” Camaria said, smiling back at the Salesman as she received her medicine and shook his ancient hand.
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Meet Me In Your Dreams
Enough time had passed since she had last tried to reach him, so Camaria abruptly dropped to the earth when he ran across her mind and tuned in, tugging their thread, urging him to connect. Kilo stopped piling the wood along the outer wall of the cabin and closed his eyes. He saw her sitting in her garden, hair haphazardly pinned up, gloves still on and filthy with dirt, cross-legged, belly beneath her earth-stained tunic now so large it rested on her upper thighs as she sat. Feeling a bit sheepish about tuning her out for so long now, Kilo conjured the courage to reconnect.

Forgive me if I have been distracted, have left you in the cold. I have been in the North, Kilo ventured. His likeness and surroundings flooding Camaria’s Mind as he connected.

Are you angry with me, Kilo? Camaria intoned, direct as ever.

Angry? No. I was but not now, he answered. But the rest—Do I miss you? Yes. Do I feel at a loss because of your absence? Yes—he kept locked within himself.

I did leave you. Yet, I am also without you. I miss you, Kilo.

I miss you, as well. I should not have shut you out, he added, feeling sad for having caused the anguish that tightened her expression, that she couldn’t help but send as a sharp note down their thread.

It is what your Heart needed for a Time, Camaria said, forever understanding.

Yes, I suppose it was, Kilo answered, accepting his limitations because of her understanding.

How are you feeling? He asked, ashamed now that he hadn’t even thought to ask until then.

I am well, Camaria asserted, hand absentmindedly rubbing her belly. And you, Kilo? Are you well?

I am, Kilo answered, the “but” lingering on the ellipsis….

I wish I could live two lives, Kilo. One here and one there with you, she said, expression softening into sadness.

Perhaps you are. Somewhere in another TimeStream, Kilo suggested.

Perhaps I am. Perhaps we are. And she smiled.

I feel your absence as loss, Kilo gained the courage to say.

I do not feel loss. Even now, Kilo. You are here, and what she said was true and not true.

But we cannot share a meal, a hug…he all but argued.

Or a kiss…a thought he held back to himself.

No, but I feel you everywhere when we Mindlink. I see what you see, feel what you emote, I run with you through the trees and feel the wind at my back, in my hair, turn to see you breathing hard through a smile, and it is overwhelming in the most delightful way. Yet, you hold back, Kilo. Why do you hide from me?

I am not ready to say. It is for another Time, he answered slowly.

I painted you, she said, allowing him the space he asked for. I rendered on my canvas the day you gave me the knife when we were 13.

Can I see it, Camaria? he requested, excited now to see.

Oh, my oldest Friend, yes. Of course. I hope I have captured you. If only she knew how completely she had.

And when her likeness was replaced in his Mind by the story told through the mounds of coloured paints, tears welled in his eyes at how very much she Loved him.
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Brothers in Arms
Under the shimmer of the Moon, Oberon woke with a great gasp that arched his back, his chest pulled up from the bed as if the paddles of Langston’s zapping machine jolted his Heart into beating, yanking him from the grips of death.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he said aloud and into the dark, panting. “Enough.”
It had been 3 years since Oberon had entered the Realm, yet each time he woke, he still grasped for his bearings, momentarily unsure of where he was or how he’d gotten there, gasping himself back to life, the memories washing over him in a great wave that roiled through his belly.
“Oberon?” a gentle male voice queried. “We are in the North. Cold Mountain.”
“Yes,” Oberon confirmed, re-membering, his breath returning to him as he used the technique Hoku had taught him those years ago: in…hold…out…hold…
“Are you All Right?” Hoku asked, and Oberon felt the man’s familiar hand on his chest.
“I will be,” Oberon answered. “At least I hope to be.”
“That is why we are here,” Hoku re-minded him.
“Yes,” Oberon said, still lying on his back, one of his muscled arms raised and bent, fingers rubbing at his eyes, allowing Hoku’s hand to remain on his naked chest to calm his thundering Heart. “I am here to finally find some Peace.”
—------------------
When Oberon and Hoku roused themselves, washed, and came down from their sleeping quarters, through the greatroom, and beyond the doors into the clearing beyond; the full effect of the settlement was nothing short of spectacular. Having arrived shortly after nightfall, the men had not had a chance to look around before being shown their room, not dismissively but swiftly, by Amara who’d had emergent family matters to attend to. Though the buildings appeared to be plain, the craftsmanship shone through the guise of simplicity.
In its construction, they’d used no wood imported from afar, no adornments lined the walls from exotic places, no stone was quarried from deep and dangerous mines, no person risked life or limb to extract treasures from GaiSophia’s caves. Nothing was magicked or spelled though the place was magical and spellbinding in its artistry.
So though they called the buildings longhouses, they weren’t entirely or solely long. They began as a loose vision/version of a rectangle, but the terrain posed many limits to available space in/on the uneven landscape that was to host the dwellings, sheds, and the sauna house, between random copses of trees and a minefield of rocks.
So, they had to be creative, yet instead of nuisances, the outcroppings, the clusters became a challenge, and The Builders danced with it, spun/flipped/spread out their blueprints marked in erasable pencil, lit up with an opportunity to roll up their sleeves and get to work. When Mani, Adonis, Hector and their families built the most recent longhouse, they’d planted splendid details of their craftsmanship in every corner, from the oiled wood banisters to the hand-placed stone hearth hauled and hoisted from within the clearing itself.
The face of the building appeared to be ordinary, lovely, yes, yet the typical house of logs, and since it was tucked closely into the West side of the settlement, its back had to climb the face of the mountain.
Inside was a greatroom for gathering: here were the lounging areas, some tables for eating or games, and the great stone hearth that was often lit, winter or summer. Up from the back of the room rose two sets of stairs, one on each side of the longhouse that beckoned/led up to the sleeping quarters that were shelved in the rock. Some of the rooms had two sets of bunks, others with single or double occupancy, yet the rooms were not on one single second floor but several as the steps branched to direct one to varying levels. They were well prepared for any combination or constellation of visitors, and Oberon and Hoku were given the small North-Eastern room that overlooked the settlement. The simple room, the double bed, was enough for the two of them and similar to the Home they’d created together in Veils’ Edge.
On both sides of the longhouse, and for several feet in front, was a stone garden bordered with simple benches for sitting and fires. Although the building was only a few years old, moss already grew through the spaces between the rocks, between the great toes of the mountain itself, whose grip was held in the soft, lush floor of mulch and soil. The mountain bermed, held, and enveloped the settlement which was happy enough to both shine from and recede into its landscape.
Oberon and Hoku enjoyed the spectacular view for some time before descending from their small elevation to join their already busy hosts. As they sipped their morning beverages, they learned much about its construction and history from all who gathered at the picnic table near the main cabin—The Ice Man, Amara, Kilo, Kai, and little Lila in her Human form who instantly and simultaneously had and lightened both men’s Hearts the moment they were introduced.
Building on this terrain had not been easy (as would be expected), but as Adonis had declared when they’d begun construction, having already stripped off his shirt in the heat and assessing the site: “Oh, what a challenge, Mani,” he’d said to the smaller man who’d beamed excitedly beside him, “I can see it, yes, what you have drawn. Right there!” Adonis had pointed. “I am looking forward to this challenge!” And Hector smiled to himself as he filled the wheelbarrow with the wooden stakes The Ice Man and Kilo had prepared the day before to mark the footprint.
“Let’s begin!”
Most of the group being Craftspeople and not necessarily Builders, Mani, who was both, envisioned for them what was to rise from the clearing at the base of the mountain. When they encountered obstacles much too heavy for the human body to unearth and maneuver, Yara had contributed knowledge from the East: the power of Resonance, Vibration, and Sound, the capacity of which could quite literally move mountains. Though they did so when it was best to employ and apply, they still did much of the construction by way of hand and ingenuity when preferred and warranted. Rather than flattening, levelling, or too greatly manipulating the topography, they worked with it. In this way, Mani had taught them efficiency (flexibility), ingenuity, and the art that could only be created through detours and obstacles.
They did, of course, cut trees for the building of both dwellings and fires. They constructed and crafted furniture, tools, games, carvings, and many other items that were loaded up into the wagons that travelled the wider summer roads for the use and enjoyment of the peoples of other settlements throughout the realm. They received shipments from The Metal Alchemists in the Deep East, fragrant spices from Savannah, honey from the southern lands bordering Memphis. They sent requests via bird or telepathy for provisions and aid when needed. And they replenished the land with care and attention, gave daily thanks, and did not waste; what could not be Made from what they felled was burned in the hearths, the combustion creating heat, the ash returned to GaiaSophia to repurpose, or they left it to decay, recycled, making up the soft, woody floor of the forest.
“I thought Veil’s Edge was incredible,” Oberon remarked, “and this place is equally so. But in a different Way.” Hoku smiled to see/hear/feel Oberon’s response to the place, how he was calming even more here, unwinding, more of the bombs within the field of him diffusing one by one.
As they continued to talk, little Lila a few feet over in the grass playing with a toy her father had made, Kilo observed…the impression of both Oberon and Hoku forming bold and true. Hoku was average in height, a few inches shorter than Kilo himself, with sinewy lean muscle that stretched over his body. He was older than Kilo, likely between his own age and his Aunt and Uncle's, tidy short brown hair, skin smooth and unwrinkled save for a set of delicate crow’s feet beside each narrow, thin lidded dark eye that deepened with his gentle smile. Hoku was lithe but understated, yet Kilo almost immediately felt the great strength within him—in his physicality, his mind, his heart—not coiled or explosive but everpresent, everflowing.
Oberon had entered the realm some 3 years ago straight through the Gates of Hell, spat out near Veil’s Edge’s Receiving House where Hoku was residing and receiving. Not many came through that Way, the choices of living on in familiarity or the blissful transition of Death most often preferred over the disorienting turning back, the painful rebirthing of the Made Self into a new world. Kilo watched Oberon as he spoke in conversation, queried his hosts, contemplated their answers, allowing them the space to inform him, his face a hard shell over the mind Kilo could hear clicking and whirring with thought.
Oberon was not friendly in comparison to Hoku but not unfriendly, either. In Oberon, Kilo intuited the role of leader—capable, disciplined, and practiced—one felt safe from chaos, from panic, due to the direction he offered. And this was not hard at all but required the purest exchange of Trust between soldier and a commander deserving of such trust, a man of honour.
In Oberon, Kilo felt a raw wounding which allowed him an intimate entry, a soft penetration of the field of others which would require nothing less than the penetration of his own. The bond between Oberon and Hoku was apparent, and Kilo could easily see how they complimented each other as most Lovers do. Oberon built from the same stuff as the mountain, at home here in the rocky faces and cliffs; Hoku the warm hush of breeze that blows in the valleys and dances up to warm its icy peaks.
“Can we go play now?” Lila asked the adults, finished now with her toy and the grass, sensing the pause in their conversation. They all turned to look at her, not one of them lacking for a smile, for once the question was asked, there was no other answer.
“Of course!” The Ice Man exclaimed. “Let’s go to the lake,” he said with mischief. “You can show our Friends what you have taught us about change.”
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A Small Sacrifice
Kage was glad to be heading out of the city after a few hours of gathering provisions: candles, paper, a new pot of ink, a treat for Bones…palming the package he carried in his pocket, Kage thought about the dog, what she kept digging up, and the growing pile in The Boneyard.
It was nearing mid-day, and Camaria was not expected back with the girls until late-afternoon. Bones had reluctantly gone with them when Kage’d shooed her their way and told her he would feed her personally that evening. The nightmares had been increasingly disturbing as of late which led to another fitful sleep, and well, he was so fucking tired. He was just glad that Poppy was now sleeping most nights in the other room with her sisters so at least he wasn’t scaring her with his moaning and tossing. He’d been extremely agitated lately, and knew he’d been taking it out on Camaria, so he planned to have a mid-day rest then make it up to her with an apology and a gift after the girls were asleep.
“Kage! Kage!” he heard a familiar voice call. Kage didn’t want to acknowledge the man, but there was nowhere he could hide—no archway to duck under, no alleyway to slip into.
“Kage!” he called again, and Kage looked up to see Iago running across the street toward him, hopping back once to dodge a bicycle.
“Man, it’s been an age!” Iago exclaimed as he clasped Kage’s hand in a bro handshake which Kage accepted yet without as much enthusiasm.
“What,” Iago teased, “aren’t you happy to see me?” Kage didn't give him the satisfaction of an answer.
“Hello, Iago,” Kage said instead, throwing him a bone.
“Well, that’s better!” Iago exclaimed and smiled with an open mouth much like he did when they were boys, and for a moment Kage softened.
“How about a drink?” Iago invited.
“It’s mid-afternoon,” Kage said.
“So? That’s maybe a good thing. We’d be less likely to run into anyone you don’t want to see,” Iago said, employing his honed art of persuasion, and Kage found himself not very hard to persuade. Their past came back like a body memory, how close they were, like brothers once, and he missed that brotherhood, he missed having a Friend.
“I don’t want to hear about my father. Or The Pit. Or anything about The Organization. Do you understand?” Kage insisted, Iago surprised and excited that Kage was actually going to say yes.
“Of course! Of course! Just one drink, and no talking about that shit. What harm could it do?”
—------------
“You still drink, Kage?” Iago asked from across the table. They'd chosen a bright diner given that it was early in the day and the taverns were still hours from opening.
“The odd nightcap,” Kage admitted nonchalantly.
“Well, we’re on then,” Iago conspired, smile spreading, then snapping the waitress over. “Two whiskey,” Iago ordered, then turned his attention back to Kage.
“How’s Bramble been?” Kage found himself asking, actually curious about the woman, after they’d exchanged some idle chit chat and Kage was sipping his 2nd drink and Iago his 5th. The last he’d heard, Iago said they were on again in their on again off again arrangement.
“I don’t know. Haven’t seen her in a while. Last time I saw her she seemed pissed that she couldn't go on one of her benders.” So, off again, Kage concluded.
“I don’t know…” Iago rambled on “…I think she might be knocked up,” he said as he stared into his glass for a moment and swirled the contents.
“What? Well, that’s…news…” Kage said, surprised, barely keeping his composure enough to convey the correct sentiment.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Probably isn’t mine, anyway. She’s got a lot of customers,” Iago said, shifting the conversation.
“Anyway, enough about me. Let’s talk about yoooouuu,” he slurred. “How is your little lady? And your kids, how many has she popped out now?”
“Don’t ask,” Kage ground out, offended by Iago’s disrespect, sensing the sudden rattle of the snake’s tail.
“I’m just curious like you are about that bitch Bramble,” Iago pressed.
“Don’t ask me about them, Iago,” Kage said, leaning forward, lowering his voice to a tone that was more menacing than if he were yelling.
“Okay, okay,” Iago said, laughing, leaning back on the seat, waving his hands in surrender. “I won’t ask. Jees, Kage, chill.” Then Kage sat back, looked out the window trying to calm himself.
“Man, you just go fucking lethal like your old man,” Iago added.
“What did you say?” Kage challenged, snapping his attention back to Iago.
“I just mean…anyway, you’re not like your old man. I thought you’d kill Mordax that last fight, but you spared him. The Viper wouldn’t have spared him.”
“I didn't want to kill him,” Kage tried to clarify. “I only wanted to be done with it all…the back alley dealings, Th Viper’s fucking dirty work.”
“Yeah,” Iago laughed but this time bitterly, “and where did that leave me?” he said, eyes flashing, the first indication that he was upset. Kage hadn't thought about that, not even once in all these years, about the fact that he’d left Iago behind.
“I thought you were satisfied with your life,” Kage said, “your promotion to take the place of The Viper’s Right Hand, the fast life and the parties.”
“You thought,” Iago said, this time the bitterness was unmistakable, this time Iago was the one who looked lethal, ready to strike.
“I’m sorry,” Kage said. “I didn’t…”
“You’re sorry. Hm,” Iago huffed. “You know, Kage, you have always been strong, but you would never have won that fight with Durus had it not been for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“The pill, the red pill I put in your drink that popped just in time to give you the rage to smash that little fucker’s ugly face in,” Iago confessed, triumphant.
“What?” Kage said, his expression darkening into a violent storm. “What did you say?”
“Kage, don’t be stupid,” Iago said and let out a soft, drunken scoff.
“You did what?” Kage said, raising his voice now, raising his body from the diner seat to lean forward over the table.
“The Red Haze, yes. You knew…you had to have known…” Iago said, flustering somewhat, standing as well.
Reflex kicked in when he heard Iago’s flippant confessions, and for the first time, Kage reached over the table and hit someone he loved—rage, pain, betrayal driving his fist into Iago’s cheek. Iago held up his hands and stood back to block any more blows, Kage’s chest heaved, and though he remained coiled with pain, he held back, then sagged a little under fatigue and booze—was so so tired.
“You would never have survived. You would never have become the Shinigami. You would have fucking died if it hadn’t been for me. You should fucking thank me, you ungrateful fucking prick,” Iago seethed, sitting hard back into the seat, holding his hand to his split cheek.
“I never wanted this!” Kage yelled, almost screaming now, eyes wide and wild, as the two other patrons left the diner, the bell over the door tinkling. “I thought it was me, I thought I was rotten and unredeemable. I thought I was more devil than human. I could never understand how I could do such a thing! We were 15! And then after that, it was easier to keep doing it,” Kage raged, spittle flying from his lips.
“Exactly, Kage,” Iago hissed, recovering a bit from the blow, softer now but somehow with more bite, “you were too soft, too gentle to be The Viper’s son and live. He would have killed you. And when you came out alive, you found that darkness, that rage, that fucking red demon that made you able to do what you had to do. You never would have survived without me.”
“But Iago,” Kage said, sitting down in defeat, pleading now, “don’t you see that I died anyway?”
“A small sacrifice, amigo,” Iago said as he stood and walked toward the door, leaving Kage utterly alone.
A small sacrifice.
“I should kill you for this!” Kage yelled at his back.
“But you won’t,” Iago called over his shoulder.
Just one drink. What harm could it do?
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A Mother’s Letting Go (Kalea In the Meantime)
“I cherish our Mindlinks, the messages she sends through our thread, her intonations, her presence in The Field when I get still and feel for her. Yet still I want her here. I want to hug her with my arms, Anahata. I want to hold her.”

“Oh, Kalea, I do, as well,” Anahata said, his grand heart wrought with just as much yearning as his Beloved’s.

“Anahata, my Love,” Kalea said as she unfolded the paper she drew from her pocket. “I must share these words with you. I miss her so.”

And she read…

Stay
I knew this day was coming
But plead with The Universe, anyway
Please slow it down
It is too soon; We are not done with that chapter
The countdown began...last hug, last supper, last walk, last time at the market, last bag packed with your art, your gear, your books full of stories...
My nest is empty, lifeless rooms,
A neatly made bed, a note addressed to Papa, a few abandoned paintings holding you here, waiting for your return...
A small declaration to remind us that you were here
In this home we built only for you
I said I would never be that sad woman waiting for her Beloveds to come home
But that was the Mother of all lies
There is a hole where my Heart was
Because you are not here
Go, I say, go
But please stay
For Eternity.
—Kalea’s Human: Songs of Sorrow (a year after the departure)
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Volume
It had been several months after Camaria’s arrival, and Kage was now spending more time at her apartment than his own. After a day of business dealings and money making, Kage would find himself instinctually heading toward Camaria instead of The Highrise which felt cold now, abandoned in a way he’d not noticed before.

Slowly, his belongings had migrated with him: first a toothbrush; then some of his fine suits, casual wear, and underthings; later his watches and signature hats including, and most importantly, the black fedora he wore the day he and Camaria met, the hat that had Camaria’s eyes roving to his lips whenever he pulled it just so over the tops of his eyes. Stop looking at me like that, Camaria would say before she melted in his hands like butter.

My Camaria, he thought as he walked, each step in her direction a step away from the stench of the city, a shedding of the thick armour he had grown…he had to see her, to shower in her small bathroom watching his old skin swirl down the drain, to emerge anew, black hair wet, donned in relaxed trousers and close fitting short-sleeved shirt, to take in her expression as she also took him in. So he lengthened the strides of his long legs to shorten the time, the distance between them.

And he wanted to touch her, his touchstone. He wanted to move his hands over her rounding belly, what he had planted within her, a child. Their child. The thought both terrified and exhilarated him. Both emotions pushing him in her direction.

His steps light, Kage virtually skipped up to the main floor apartment. Inside, Camaria was alone cleaning up her art supplies when the sounds from the Pure Radio she was humming along to abruptly changed frequency.

The sounds! These were different. The pop songs emoted, the broadcast programmed, but this, these tones, they squeezed her heart, drilled needles into her brain.

At capacity at capacity at capacity! her brain screamed, until some kind of shielding broke, and the screaming came out of her very throat. Her Home, her centre—who she was and why she was—completely overridden, scrambled by The Tower’s Transmission.

When the pain came, it was Kage she sent it to, down their glistening golden thread. He was the first person she resonated to—not her parents, not Kilo, but Kage. For the first time he was first. And something shifted in The Field.

Kage felt her before he heard her scream, not once, but wail after wail, the tail end of the preceding sound cyclically pulsating into the next. He leapt up the final 2 steps, scrambled to put the key into the lock. When he burst into the apartment, he found Camaria collapsed on her knees on the floor of the living room, paint brushes scattered on the floor, painting spinning over the table under the window, curl-crowned head bowed, hands clutching at her ears.

“Camaria! Is it the baby?!” Kage exclaimed as he ran to her and couched by her side gathering her to him. “Camaria!”

“No! No, Kage. The sounds, the noise! It hurts! Please, please, turn it off!” It was then he noticed the crackling of the radio, the voices and the non-human tones that it broadcast.

“The radio? What? The radio, Camaria?” Kage implored, not yet convinced as to the source of her pain.

“Yes. Please, Kage. Make it stop!” Kage stood up and snapped it off, and as soon as he did so, Camaria’s stiffened posture relaxed. He reached her side in time for her to collapse into his embrace. Kage pulled her away from him by her shoulders just enough to look into her face, to see her anguish soften slightly with the weeping that began, the look of concern mixed with confusion Kage had learned to interpret as sorrow.

“Are you ok? What the hell, Camaria? What is it?” he implored, looking her over.

“So much pain. So much. It is so loud! And distorted! The people, oh the people…how can they stand it? Is this how they feel all the time, Kage?” Camaria probed, trying to make Sense, tears spilling from her deep brown eyes.

“What do you mean? I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t feel anything,” Kage answered, concerned.

“You don’t? You didn’t?” Camaria’s voice hitched with a sob. “How?” she whispered.

“You are so sensitive, my Little Camaria,” Kage cooed, stroking her head, pulling her deeper to his chest on the floor where they still sat.

“Yes. I am. Are you not?” Camaria asked with her ear to his heart, allowing its strong beat to soothe and reassure.

“Sensitivity makes people weak. We have to toughen you up,” she heard his voice rumble through his ribcage. Camaria sat back up.

“Sensitivity heightens your awareness,” she protested, the tears now slowing. “Sensitivity is like a finely tuned instrument. It is a power.”

“Who told you that?” It was Kage’s turn to express confusion with the furrowing of his dark brow.

“It is a Truth,” Camaria said simply, shaken but sure. They paused to move onto the couch, the urgency now dissipating into the Æther. Kage sat close, leaning back a bit to watch her with curiosity, and to listen.

“It is the radio. The frequency. That is how they do it, how they keep the people under the grey gauze I feel suffocating us here. How do they stand it, Kage? Every day. The pressing. The squeezing. The noise stealing the air.” Sensing her anguish, Kage pulled her close again. Camaria let out a great sigh.

“I don't hear anything, Camaria,” he said, misinterpreting his own denial as an assurance.

I don’t hear anything.

And the painting Camaria later named The Great Paradox spun and spun and spun…

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Warmongers (Gods and Monsters)
Camaria and Kage listened to the Monday Broadcast. They’d agreed that such propaganda was dangerous, even for the aware, but also that it was important for them to know something about the state of The Realm so they could respond when necessary. They’d determined that they could tease the Truth from the lies, decide if and what there was for them to do, then live the rest of the week without the distortion and the noise.
The War had slowed a bit to less frequent battles as each faction reloaded, replenished their provisions and their live body count. Small skirmishes flared here and there, occurring more often in the Western part of The Killing Fields. Slumber City seemed to slip into a fitful sleep while the landscape around Salem flashed throughout the nights with gunshots and grenades. Sin City was silent, engulfed and cleansed by the tsunamis that followed the ocean floor’s great Submarine Quakes, the megathrust that left The Black Unknown a mass sea of graves, bones sinking into its bed stripped by carnivorous sea life, debris still lapping, belching up onto its shores.
The Empire knew when and where to provoke, for the ebb of The War was not a goal, nor was peace, the distraction of battle much more beneficial in securing The Empire’s authority, so The Imperials would remain relevant and preferable to the supposed chaos that would prevail if the people were not kept under such thumbs. Now was the perfect time for The Empire to fan the embers into flames through urgent announcements and manipulations, so The Broadcast blared the inevitable, the anxiously anticipated: The War was coming to Slumber City.
THE BATTLE IS SPREADING TO THE EAST
CIVILIAN DEATH TOLL IN THE THOUSANDS
NEW RECRUITS HAVE BEEN DRAFTED
YOUR DUTY IS TO THE EMPIRE AND TO OUR NATION
LOCK YOUR DOORS AS THE ENEMY IS NEAR
ONLY VENTURE TO REPORT TO YOUR WORK DUTIES
ABSENTEEISM WILL NOT BE TOLERATED
WE WILL HAVE VICTORY
The war within Kage flared, a mirror, The War With No End a direct OutPicturing that exploded so violently that the citizens of The Realm reeled with it, gasping and scrambling. It did not reach the city as they were warned, however, but split into two main fronts—The West and The East Killing Fields—escalating to a frenzy that no one had ever witnessed in the history of The War. The body count, the brutality, reached a fever pitch, though the loss was largely one-sided, most of the dead amongst The Opposition, The Resistance, and The Civilians. The Empire was winning, their troops particularly effective in killing, as if mere mortal men faced an army of Gods and Monsters who showed no mercy, slaughtering despite the desperate waving of so many white flags, a billowing red-speckled sheet that pleaded for mercy.
The Empire had given The Establishment the order to release The Red Bullet, a pill dispensed from The Commanders to their soldiers before each battle. Their plan was not to end The War but to crush The Opposition, to send The Resistance, if not to the UnderWorld, deep into the underground, the threat of war forever looming should they move or say too much. To that end, there would be no mercy.
“Kage, something is different…more unleashed,” Camaria said as they listened to the reports from the couch in the greatroom which consisted of their living area and dining area that served as one of Camaria’s studio spaces. She worked where the action of their days spilled out around her, the life that filled her Heart and her canvases. As they listened, their girls played quietly in the bedroom they shared, though they had the space to have their own.
“Kage…something…I feel it, though I cannot quite Understand what it is. I must paint it,” she breathed in a loud whisper, chest heaving with mounting energy, her expression bunching with concern. She rose, moved to the table, placed a large canvas on the easel, and began. The brushes dipped into the colours she’d gobbed onto her palette, slid over the canvas in sweeping strokes in reds and blues and blacks, so much red. Even without the forms fully awakened, Kage could smell the blood…
Kage rubbed the dark stubble on his cheeks, his chin, ran his hand through his black hair, familiar fear turning into unfamiliar horror as he paced the room and watched Camaria work. He did not attempt to comfort her, on the edge of panic himself, his usual cool collectedness slipping with each brushstroke.
“Put the girls to bed, please, Kage,” Camaria managed to say over her shoulder. “Kiss them for me. I cannot stop. I have to finish this…something is revealing itself…” And he felt sick, so sick, but somehow, his legs moved in the direction of their Daughters, toward the sound of their muted voices in the throes of imagination and play.
“What’s wrong, Papa?” Molina asked, lying now in bed, changed into her small white nightshift, searching her Father’s face as he pulled her covers to her chin.
“All is well, Cub,” Kage answered, Molina sensing the lie but saying nothing further. Indigo and Cressida were already tucked into the other half of the large bed beside Molina, cuddled in together. Indigo draped her small arm over Cressida to calm her fidgeting Sister into sleep, their strings of solar fairy lights a comfort in the dark.
After he closed their door as softly as he could, Kage had to steady himself—one hand on the wall, dark head down, other hand to his chest, eyes that burned bright and lavender closed tight against distress that hit him in wave after wave.
What had they done? What had he done?
It took several minutes for Kage to collect himself enough to re-enter the greatroom, to face Camaria and her painting.
The room glowed with the flickers of the candles they’d lit around the space. Camaria sat on a high stool, her back to him, contemplating the painting, loose sleeves rolled up to her elbows, brow still bunched…but she was breathing, calming now, likely in communication with her Mother and her Father.
All is All Right, he heard from somewhere, nowhere, from everywhere…
Somehow he had the courage to look beyond Camaria to the painting she’d rendered, and at first, for just one blessed moment, he was relieved and released a breath, his shoulders, the muscles in his jaw. She had not depicted him nor any of the secrets that lie like stones in the pit of his stomach.
But that moment passed, flashed, as Kage’s sharp eyes, his keen Senses, swiftly took in what Camaria Saw, the terror returning as quickly as it left.
In a sweep of motion, 5 men were in the middle of various acts, bloody, brutal, victims on the other end of their weapons—guns, knives—some used their hands, one pressed a knee to a throat. The painting screamed terrors that the silenced no longer wailed, that the 5 could not hear, seeped pungent odors of sweat and ruin, the acrid breath reeked into the side of a woman’s face. Despite the chaos and the subsequent reeling from it, one could not mistake each man’s hot red eyes that glowed from a depth beyond their sockets.
And there was a figure, in the background, or was it the foreground?—who seemed to switch between the two as Kage tried to focus, moving through the wake of the stories, the nightmares—a man in blue, a Commander given his fatigues that were torn and stained with blood and earth, a master intent to leash his wild dogs…where was he? Kage wondered, eyes narrowing as he drew closer to the canvas, to locate what the men trampled…it looked like the gardens at the rear of their house…
And as if they’d conjured them, (or was it a prediction?), both Kage and Camaria jumped at a harsh and loud banging on the back door.
“We demand that you open up!” came a shout, a man’s voice—rough, clipped, but not quite sober. There were other voices that rumbled and commanded in agreement, then some shuffling, a loud crack, and a dusty breeze wafted into the room before either Kage or Camaria had the chance to act. They were inside.
“Camaria, hide! Go to the children!” Kage hissed, eyes blackening.
“It is too late, Kage,” Camaria countered, standing, straightening her spine, lifting her chin. “I am better use here. To intercept them.”
“Woooo,” a male voice breathed out a whistle from the kitchen. “Well look here. This place is niiiice. That fridge must be stocked.” (City Boy)
“Beats the tar outa the other shit shacks around here,” said a second male voice. (Rocket)
“Rocket…those pills must be wearing off. I don’t feel so good. My head hurts,” complained a third. (Berserker)
“Well they’re bound to, it’s been three days,” the first voice interrupted. (City Boy)
“I can’t really remember much after our sneak attack except…oh my god,” the third voice trembled “…was that real?…” he trailed off. (Berserker)
“You fucking dumb ass!” the first voice scolded. “You’re still fucked from those pills, Berserker. Was it real?” he said incredulously. “That last farmer, I had to tear you off of him before you ripped off his fucking…”
“Stop talking about it, City Boy! Leave him be!” a fourth voice snapped. “You just keep that pretty mouth shut, why don’t you?!”
“Quiet, MayDay,” hissed the fifth voice (Ghost), “they’re home. I can see the lights glowing down the hall,” the man’s first words since they’d arrived having busied himself observing their surroundings while the others bantered and bickered.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” MayDay taunted.
Camaria and Kage entered from the hall that joined the kitchen to the greatroom knowing they didn’t have a hope of getting their children out before they’d be intercepted. Their only chance was to defuse the bomb.
They’d entered the kitchen at the rear of the house—The Empire’s soldiers by the look of their tattered fatigues and cobalt arm bands—the one City Boy had called Berserker, the one with the most blood on him, red eyes rolling a bit and in and out of focus, couldn’t have been older than 18.
“Well look at this pretty number,” MayDay said, eying Camaria as the couple entered, ignoring Kage who was several inches taller than him and was quickly and expertly scanning the room: 5 men in total, all young; the tall, blonde and pretty one who must have been City Boy leaned back on the counter beside the fridge; Berserker peered up through red and swollen eyes to take in the couple from where he’d settled on the floor, shirtless, with his head in his hands; Rocket who donned a blue bandana across his tanned brow, sat forward and alert in a chair across from a man so fair he seemed to be an apparition; the short, dirty soldier who paced the span of the room and seemed to have lost his jacket—he was the one with the mouth, MayDay.
“Fuck,” City Boy muttered.
“What?” asked MayDay, turning his attention to his tall, blonde comrade.
“You see that tattoo? It’s The Viper’s tattoo,” City Boy said with concern, disdain, and a little bit of reverence. “I’d know it anywhere.”
“Son of a bitch. We have to get out of here,” MayDay said, starting to pace again.
“What do we do, then? We can’t take the vehicles. They’re a red flag. After what we did, everyone will be after us…” Rocket started to say.
“Shut the fuck up, Rocket!” MayDay scolded, thinking better of what conversation they shared with their unwilling hosts.
“For once, he’s right. Shut up Rocket. Get their radio. Do you have a phone, Viper? And don’t lie because we’ll know. And if we find it, your missus here will get it first, then you,” City Boy said, gracefully pushing off the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Kill them. That way we don’t leave a trace,” MayDay demanded. Kage flinched, just barely, but Camaria felt it.
“There is a better Way,” Camaria ventured, calm and even. Her Voice soothing yet cutting through the SoldierSpeak.
The fifth soldier stood, his chair screeching on the floor with the abrupt motion, and grabbed Camaria’s arm, “what do you know about better ways?” he sneered, resisting any kind of placation or comfort. Kage knew that look. The feeling of bloodlust that the poison behind it evoked. The loss of memory, the nightmares when they came back in pieces.
Kage’s arm sprung fast as an asp and grabbed the soldier by the throat, said: “get your fucking hands off of her,” in that way that promised death for anyone who dared to disobey.
MayDay and City Boy were on him in an instant, roughly gripping each of his arms, City Boy having to pry his hand from the soldier’s throat first. Kage was aware of the knives on the counter, too far out of reach, but kept his eyes on Camaria and the soldier who had not loosened his grip on her arm even when Kage was tightening around his windpipe. Kage could take them, but the soldier had Camaria and had produced a bloodied blade from his belt with his free hand.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Viper,” City Boy said in his ear.
“Ghost, look,” Rocket interrupted, addressing the fifth soldier, standing now, his chair tipped over from the movement, pointing to the rack of children’s coats beside the back kitchen entrance, the three small pairs of rubber boots that lined the mats beneath.
“They got kids,” he said, the first look of concern crossing his face, sobering him a little. Just enough.
“You have kids?” Ghost said, pulling Camaria closer so she could see his translucent eyes, his opaque skin. His CallName was Ghost, not because he was stealthy or even spooky, but because everything about him was white.
Kage made to move again, but Camaria intoned to him:
Peace, Love. Hang on.
“They are asleep,” she said aloud, putting her hand on Ghost’s where he gripped her. His light eyes flashed up to her dark ones.
“Kill them! Fucking kill them!” MayDay repeated, red eyes blazing now.
“Shut up, MayDay!” Ghost barked, glancing down to her hand on his, back up to her face, somewhat confused. He felt something move slightly in him, irritation now shifting from the captured to his comrade.
“Do you have a Beloved?” Camaria asked, genuinely wanting to know the answer.
“No, but I have Sisters,” Ghost answered without knowing that he wanted to.
“I do,” Rocket offered from where he stood. “Her name is Cherry.”
“I have a Son,” City Boy confessed as he let go of Kage’s arm. “He’s 7.”
“Shut the fuck up you guys. Don’t you see what she’s doing?” MayDay screeched, but let go when Kage wrenched his arm from his grip. Then no one moved.
“You are upset MayDay,” Camaria stated.
“Don’t use my name,” MayDay spat.
“All Right,” Camaria agreed.
“And of course I am!” MayDay continued as if he couldn't stop the words. The Truth.
“You are in pain,” Camaria stated in that same matter-of-fact way.
“Fuck that.”
“You want to hurt someone.”
“You fucking bet I do!”
“You want to hurt me.”
“Well, no,” MayDay faltered, then scowled. “What does that matter?”
“You hate.”
“Fuck yes.”
“You hate me.”
Silence.
“You hate The Empire.”
Silence.
“You hate yourself,” Camaria ventured, the truth hit, the top blew off the volcano, and MayDay burst into a fit of screams and motion. He threw a chair that cracked with the impact as it smashed into the floor, then before he could destroy the entire kitchen, Ghost let go of Camaria’s arm and grabbed him, wrestled him to the ground, held him there with Rocket’s help until his screams subsided and his body went limp.
Still, no one else moved, there was no sound except breath and MayDay’s soft sobbing, sweat beads mingling with the dirt and blood on his face. He had no remaining energy to throw off the hand Rocket placed on his shoulder as he knelt beside him, not yet himself but no longer violent, no longer looking for a target outside of himself. The whole room felt the release, the exorcism, the red cloud escape into the atmosphere, the shattering/vanishing of the tale that could have been, the roles they could have played, that of victim and of perpetrator, of murdered and murderer, a story that never came True.
It was as if every one of them waited for Camaria to take the lead once more.
Then Berserker spoke, the back of his head now resting on the wall behind him where he sat.
“If you’re asking me…” he said quietly, “do I have a girl? A family? If you’re asking me? I have no one. They’re all dead.”
“Mama?” came a soft sound from the back stairs that led from the second floor to the kitchen: little Cressida in her white nightshift, black hair in tangles, rubbing her obsidian eyes.
“Go,” Ghost said more gruffly than he’d meant to, addressing Camaria and gesturing to the girl with his head. “Go tend to your children.”
“Milady,” he said to the child, standing up, straightening himself, collecting the best smile he could, and bowing. Cressida smiled back, Ghost noting how unafraid, intrigued even, the little girl appeared.
“Don’t even think about trying to escape,” City Boy called after Camaria as she ushered Cressida back up the stairs, though he knew the point had become moot.
“We do not want to escape,” Camaria stopped on the stairs for a moment to reply. “This is our Home. And you are welcome here. Help yourselves to whatever you need. It is Freely given.” Intrigue driving her, little Cressida looked back to smile once more at the white soldier.
“As Camaria said, there is food and drink, blankets in the cabinets in the living room,” Kage said once his Beloveds were safely upstairs, although his offering was much less genuine, his expression and tone tense and coiled, laced with venom and warning. “Take what you want.” And get the fuck out, he wanted to add before he followed his Beloveds up the back stairs.
—----
As Camaria got ready for bed as quietly as possible—gathering clothing from their room, returning, and arranging pillows—Kage washed up in the bathroom in their Daughters’ room. He had given free reign of the rest of the house to the soldiers who banged and clanged as they ate, drank, washed, rummaged, and snooped. He had curtly given them changes of clothes (because he knew this is what Camaria would have done) and let them find what they needed in the bathroom cabinets, turned on the solar pump so they could have some running water.
Kage knew that the men would continue to stand down as the poison was slowly sweated and pissed out of their bodies, washed off their skin. Yet he locked the door of their Daughters’ room, anyway, and moved a wardrobe to barricade the door. There they tried to rest, Kage climbing in with Molina, Camaria with Indigo and Cressida, facing each other from opposite ends of the beds, delineating the boundaries, the brackets they held around their precious slumbering everything.
Kage watched his Beloved’s face aided by the dim Moonlight, the fairy lights that were losing their charge but still glowing. He marvelled at her, how she’d saved them all, in so many ways, simply with her Sight—a kind of Sight Kage could not access unless it was through her eyes, in a language only she could speak, and somehow she did it without the arrogance or trickery of persuasion, of manipulation.
How she could communicate so compassionately, so lovingly with men Kage could so easily hate, who Kage could only see as animals until she revealed them as what they were: mere men with families and Beloveds, with reasons and both the rage and pain behind them, the same rage and pain that fuelled many ugly deeds Kage, himself, had also enacted. The men had pasts, yes, but possible futures, too. He had so so much to learn from her. For if he’d had it his way, there would have been 5 dead men in their kitchen and more blood on his own hands with little Cressida as witness. And with that thought, he drifted off for a while…
Kage and Camaria woke to the sound of a man crying, an argument, a slam—it must have been about 4am given that the orange sliver of sunrise and the still-bright Moon shared the sky. They rose from bed and watched from the window as Berserker ran out the back toward the garage and sheds. Molina stirred, and Kage told her to try to go back to sleep.
All is All Right, Camaria assured her. And Molina settled back into her soft down pillows.
When they returned their attention to the scene before them, another figure, a man in The Empire’s fatigues, armband indicating a higher rank, swiftly moved through the early morning mist toward the house. Berserker saw him, ran toward him, fell to his knees at his feet. The Commander barked Berserker’s name, snapping him to attention, pulled him up roughly by his scruff, and started to haul him back toward the house, gun out, at the ready to fire. The Commander then looked up to the window where Kage and Camaria watched.
His eyes meet Kage’s first, and the men eyed each other—Kage taking in the man’s gruff and stubbled face, short, grey crew cut, his steady, commanding stare. The Commander recognised something powerful in the younger black-eyed man in the window, the striking woman beside him. Berserker looked up again, and his face twisted with the threat of more tears.
“Keep moving,” The Commander barked, breaking eye contact with the couple at the window, moving forward again, yanking the pup once more by the scruff.
When he and Berserker reached the door, The Commander cracked it open and took in the scene. There was no blood. No one was dead. Just broken chairs and a few broken men coming down from their temporary insanity. Oberon holstered his gun, relieved that he didn’t have to put the soldiers down. Not yet, anyway.
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Wax Museum
Chapter from Book 5

Annie’s grandmother received her from her rented cot in her rented room, the nurses shuffling by in the hallway.

In the room they had stuffed a few of her things, keepsakes that survived each culling, each withering away of her attachment to her life before. A shawl was draped on the back of the chair that had held her and her babies for infinite hours of rocking and pausing—the sweet moments in the in-between.

A cheap, yellowed print of a sailboat hung above her head, fake faded pink flowers partially blocked her view of the street. The TV flickered before her, though she didn’t give it any mind, but instead looked past the dusty ornaments and out the window.

Framed photos of her family crowded the small cherry end table beside her bed, the plastic white window frame, the small pine shelf, each one a well to contemplate. Her eyes landed on her favourite as they did hundreds of times a day, the one young Annie captured of she and Annie’s grandfather in the delight of a kiss on their 65th wedding anniversary. Well, at least they knew enough to keep that…

That and a few other pieces of a once rich life in their little house where they raised their children—days bustling with shopping, working, cooking to do, bathtime scrubbing and splashing, and the sweet silence after bed, when she and her Beloved collapsed together to the couch after tucking everything and everyone in. Always a catching of the joy that flew, the tucking of the escaping, tickling tendrils of chaos that kept their life in perpetual and glorious motion. Yes, the sweet, sweet chaos.

If she closed her eyes, those flat, still pieces of paper became once again animated. Everyone here with her, making a glorious mess of her life.

But now she lay, eyes roving over a museum of artefacts mindlessly placed to stage the scene before her. An imitation, a set, a facade of once was.

“So, this is it,” the words that passed her dry, quivering lips when her daughter and son-in-law first wheeled her in.

“It’s for the best,” she heard him say as they left down the clean, sterile hallway, as if she couldn’t hear him, as if she were deaf, and dumb, a statue in a wax museum, expected to stay still until the next time they came to plump her pillows.

That was a year ago.

Once they took over her estate, there was really nothing she could do. There was nothing she really wanted to do—all of them gone, on the periphery now. Or perhaps it was her whose domain was now the periphery. Her hands moved slightly where they curled over the top covers, the phantom motion of the knitting she once created. Now idle and listless, for who, these days, needs the useless crafts of an old woman.

Annie’s arrival blessedly broke her spell of thoughts that were now her constant and most consistent of companions. She was relieved to let them go as Annie crawled into bed with her, carefully cuddled in, and rested her head on the bones she might have once called a shoulder. Her Annie, always so conscientious. So careful.

“Gran, I’m pregnant,” Annie began. Her grandmother didn’t blink, only answered with their next heartbeat.

“Are you in love?” she plainly asked her.

“Yes, very much,” Annie didn’t hesitate with her answer.

“No, I know you love Langston, you always have, Love. I mean with this new possibility.” Annie paused for a moment, hand drifting to her still flat belly, head still resting on her grandmother’s frail shoulder. Then…

“Yes, I think I am,” and she allowed just the hint of a smile to light on her lips, then quickly tucked it away into her heart. “Is that crazy, Gran? Am I crazy?!”

“It’s the most sane thing I’ve heard in a long time, Love,” she said to the white ceiling above them.

“Hmmm,” Annie hummed in response. And they laid there in silence for a few minutes.

“My parents, they have washed their hands of me like I’m some dirty stain.” Her grandmother’s brow furrowed, and a sharp pain shot through her, but she said nothing, knowing that this was the time to listen. “I’ve had to move in with Langston and Atticus. Gran, I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” her grandmother invited.

“The baby. How will I go to college? I can do the sleep deprivation, the feeding, and the diapers. And of course I will love it. I will love this baby with all my heart. And Langston, he will be the most wonderful father. But the money. I’m afraid, Grandma, I don’t know how to do this.”

“Of course you do, and of course you don’t. Knowing is not the point.” Again, so simple with her answers that always seemed to slow Annie’s racing mind.

“And I will lose control of my life…” Annie began…

At that, her grandmother uncurled then clapped her hands, jostling Annie from her shoulder just a bit, and exclaimed with delight: “yes, yes you will!” her smile at the ceiling getting wider with each passing moment…“so that you will adventure into the life that awaits you!” her grandmother finished.

“But I’ll have to let go of everything I thought my life would be.”

“Yes!”

“And my life will no longer be my own.”

“No, it won’t, and isn’t that just grand?!”

“I will have to give up…”

“No, my girl. No. You will give up on nothing. You will surrender to everything.”

Slowly, and to no one but herself, Annie finally said, “I will surrender…” testing, tasting the words, the smile creeping back up to her lips, at the prospect of a new story being written and rewritten.

“Thank you, Gran. Thank you,” Annie breathed, hugging her gently, tears wetting the pale blue cotton gown through to her grandmother’s thin, dusky skin beneath.

After her Annie left, the old woman slowly rose from the bed. From her window she watched Annie leave the building, a bounce in her step, black halo of curls springing back from the hot pink tie around her head as she faded from sight down the street.

The old woman pressed her hands to her lips to cup a smile that blossomed, a smile that not even this place could wipe clean.

She picked up the needles and yarn Annie left on the cherry table and began to knit a new story of purpose.

—----------------

The package arrived with the news of her grandmother’s passing. Inside the plain paper wrapping was the softest baby blanket. In the geometric shapes gently laid in white yarn and robin’s egg blue, it held every mystery there was to know about life—a cloud on which to lay her sleeping son. It mesmerised her, and she held it to her cheek for moments until she noticed the note:

Annie,
For your wee son.
My hands forgot the joy.
Thank you for the remembering.
It’s not perfect or great,
but it will keep your baby warm.
Love and more love,
Gran.

Her death was a silent passing in the night. Did she know her note was a poem, that her knitting was a masterful work of art? And Annie hoped with everything that hope could be, that her grandmother knew how very great she was.

I do, love. I know. Because of you.

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Get in the Ring
Why do you look at me, when you hate me?
Why should I look at you, when you make me hate you too?
I sense a smell of retribution in the air.
I don't even understand why the fuck you even care.
-Guns N’ Roses

The Pit was slithering with every snake in the Northern District. They had all come to see The Viper’s son square off with his last match, and the din of the crowd was potent, the bloodthirst even more intoxicating than Kage had remembered. The place reeked of sweat and alcohol, an environment that one would think too unpleasant for the Upper Crust, but there they were—in fact, they thrived there in the underbelly, wagering excitedly on who would live and who would die. So, they wore their best suits and evening dresses, tipped their fedoras on their slick haired heads, placed bets kept by the smiling bookies who slithered through the crowd.

Kage had gone soft in some ways over the last 8 months, that was certain, but that softness could be hidden behind his cold black eyes—as long as he conjured enough of the violence he once thrived on for one last fight. These were not cage fights without rules, nor were the fighters allowed weapons of any kind—the matches were brutal and often deadly, but were stripped down to bare knuckles and the primal instinct to kill or be killed.

Though The Viper did not want Kage to lose, his reasons were not those of a loving father for his beloved son. He did not care that his son could be killed, only that Kage’s death would mean The Viper’s dishonour. If Kage lost tonight, the shame would be more painful than his son being beaten to death. Had he not taught Kage to survive, enlisted the most harsh and brutal teachers to make him unbeatable? Had Kage not come through without even one loss in his fighting history? No, Kage would not lose. He would seal his fate, and he would take his place in History. A legend, he would go out on top tonight. Then he would disappear from The Pit forever, someone else to take his place in The Ring, someone else to make the crowd feel more alive by the possibility of their champion’s bloody death.

During their meeting in the Diner, The Viper had said that there were three conditions to their new arrangement: 1. Kage had to perform his duties with The Establishment without fail; 2. He could not try to leave or they would be hunted down; and 3. Kage had to prove to his father that he hadn't gone soft and prove to the world that he was still loyal to his father in one last fight in The Pit. No more dirty work for The Organization, no more maiming or killing or intimidation. One more fight to stop the fighting. Tonight he would honour that final condition.

So, Kage crept from bed gently kissing Camaria’s cheek as he left her sleeping, pushed the black moped away from the house to where he could start it without waking her, and sped off to face more demons than his own.

When Kage entered The Pit through the changing room and made his way through the crowd to The Ring with Iago smiling smugly at his side, there was a roar of cheering as no one dared to boo The Viper’s son. Kage was formidable: chest bare and muscled, lithe form not one bit out of shape, blood-red shorts trimmed gold at the hem, his viper tattoo wrapping around his bicep, over his shoulder, and up to his jawline, cold eyes as black as his father’s Soul. He was as deadly as his old man.

His opponent was a man about the same age as Kage, Mordax, the brother of the boy Kage had beaten to death all those years ago. Though the dead boy was being honed to be a killer and every fighter who entered the ring knew the stakes, Kage had still taken his life. And there was no forgiveness for the victors, only the simultaneous emotions of reverence, jealousy, fear, and hate. And Kage felt every one of those emotions projected at him, formed into a cloud of poison above the crowd. And they chanted:

“Get in the ring! Get in the ring! Get in the ring! Get in the ring!”

The only two things a fighter needed to know about The Ring, his teacher beat (slapped? pounded?) into him, were: no fear, and no mercy. So Kage kept walking, unapologetic, jaw flexing, eyeing and glaring into the jeering, smiling, chanting, drunken faces, and slipped through the ropes to face his opponent.

Mordax, the last of his siblings to still walk this earth in physical form, carried on with the honing his brothers and sister had started but never lived to finish themselves—chiselled and sculpted, he stood at least 2 inches taller than Kage, his frame thicker, harrier, more grizzled. His face was stone, and he bore a thick scar that ran from the corner of his eyebrow to his downturned mouth which was just as angry as his fire-lit eyes.

Mordax had every intention of killing Kage that night, and according to Kage, he also had every right to. Those thoughts, those feelings, were what made Kage soft. But despite the nightmares, the regret, Kage was not ready to accept any sort of retribution that ended in his defeat or his death because now, for the first time, he had something to live for that had nothing to do with glory.

So, after they knocked gloves, took a couple of steps back from each other, and the bell rang announcing the first round, Kage came on strong and ferocious, surprising Mordax with punch after punch to his flank, his solar plexus, his jaw, the socket around his eye, from which Mordax only recovered once to deliver two blows to Kage’s face splitting both his lip and his brow with a spray of blood.

Kage knew if he let up now that Mordax would regain his composure and beat the living hell out of him, maybe snuff him out entirely, ridding the world of yet another conflict, another family feud. Yet, Kage did not want any more deaths on his hands. All he needed to do was win. He did not fight to be champion or for his father’s approval as he did in the past. This time it wasn’t rage and violence that fueled him but his deep need to protect. This time he fought for their Freedom, which, ironically, made him cause just as much damage as when he wanted his opponents dead.

So, Kage continued to pound Mordax until the larger man fell to the bloodied mat with a loud thud, unconscious. But Kage had not crossed the line. He knew how hard and where to hit to kill a man and how hard and where to hit to simply bring him down.

But that didn’t make Kage any less disgusted with himself as he watched Mordax fall hard to the mat after the last crunching blow, as he saw the man’s wife jump from her seat to pound the mat where her husband lay.

“Oooooh!” the crowd exclaimed at once.

“Mordax! Mordax!” the woman screamed, wisps of her blonde hair falling from her ponytail. But the man was obviously breathing, and her fear quickly turned to hate as she looked up, her red eyes blazing, at Kage, the man still standing. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

The Viper nodded and left, his lackeys trailing behind. Then the cheers flooded Kage’s head when the countdown ended. A knock out. Kage had lost count of how many that was now.

Iago laughed. “God damned, Kage!” his once-friend exclaimed, suddenly in the ring with him, patting him on the back, raising Kage’s hand in victory. “You’re still one brutal motherfucker!”

At home, Camaria bolted up in bed to the sounds of hissing, to the panting one might make when the body is spent, his breath close and intimate in her ear, though his physical form was nowhere near. As if his lips were close, her hair tickled her cheek with every puff of his breath. Camaria’s hand patted the empty mattress that was cold where Kage’s body usually kept it warm. She intoned as to his whereabouts, and his form bloomed in her mind, slack and face bloodied, Iago holding up his arm in victory as the crowd both cheered and jeered.

As the adrenaline wore off, Kage felt like he was going to be sick. He slipped out of the ring, bumped and pushed his way through the crowd who patted him on the back, as women smiled and batted their lashes at him, and all he wanted was to go home. To never set foot in this rotting shithole again.

“Come with me,” Iago coaxed. “You need a drink before you go home. It will relax you,” he said. And Kage knew this was true. He was much too wound up to go home just yet. Iago opened up a bottle, poured a glass for Kage and one for himself, and Kage stayed for a drink, for two, for three, listening to Iago’s accolades, his praise, his incessant chatter as Kage hung his head for a time, lost in his own thoughts, then came to his senses, Camaria’s concerned inquiries pulling him Home to them.

He didn’t bother showering, only wanting to return to Camaria, to let her deft hands wash the blood from the splits in his face, the stains from his Soul, as he sat curved in on himself on the edge of their bed. He tried to shove the dead boy far back into the recesses of his psyche, the pain of Mordax’s foiled attempt to avenge his brother’s death, but ghosts do not sleep.

But it was him or me, he reasoned.

It was him or me.
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Shiraz Enters the WR: Wildflower
The first time Shiraz entered the Western Realm she landed in a field of wildflowers and lush green grass on the outskirts of World's End. Where she expected darkness, pain, and decay, she was instead encircled by Mother Nature’s wild embrace. The people, on the other hand, were not as soft, not as vibrant, not as delicate, at least not on the outside.

On that day, two years ago when she was just a sweet 16, Shiraz was encountered in that very field by three boys around her age that looked as if they’d spent more than their share of time spreading mulch and turning soil—dirty, muscled, and sunkissed. They were curious, perhaps a little enchanted by her, this golden-haired apparition with pinwheel hazel eyes—well, at least the bigger two. The smaller one, though, Edmund, hung back, facial muscles working as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, the skin around his small eyes perpetually tight with suspicion. So, it was she who had been curious about him.

She was delighted when she was placed once more in that very field, the intoxicating scent of wildflowers releasing the memories along with their fragrance. She walked through the stalks, running her hand along the flowerheads that reached up to her waist, excited that she may see Wing and Feather, again, young Johanna who would now be 16, the same age as Shiraz was when they’d met, and yes, Edmund. Edmund. They were both 18 now, and how much changes in two years as the time of youth flowers each of us anew almost every day, every moment.

Edmund watched her evanesce in the swaying plants, saw her wandering toward him through the meadow. She didn’t notice him there for some minutes, then looked up to spy his dark, familiar figure under the canopy of trees at the edge of the field.

“Oh, Edmond,” she called and began to run toward him, laughing. Slowing to alight on the grass where she stopped before him, catching her breath, placing her hand to her chest over her racing, open heart, face bright as a new coin.

“Edmund!” she breathed, “I was so hoping I would land in your backyard once more. How I missed you and Johanna and your parents.” But Edmund didn’t smile back. He only stood hesitating, arms at his sides.

“This is not the best timing. I am leaving soon,” he simply said.

“Oh, yes, I see,” Shiraz said and put her own arms down realising she would not be receiving the embrace she was desiring. “Where will you be beyondering to then?”

“You know that already, Shiraz. We’ve been through this. And it’s not beyondering or anything of the sort. I am leaving this backwards place to make my fortune in the city.”

“Are you not rich already?”

“Get real, Shiraz.”

“I am Real.”

“Your ‘reality’, Shiraz, is ridiculous. It’s unrealistic. You live in your airy-fairy imagination, while the rest of us are here, in the real world.”

“Imagination is the only thing that is Real, Edmund.”

“I can’t listen to your gibberish. I’m leaving soon. To Slumber City. I told you I would get out of here, and I’m almost ready. Your arrival will not change my plans.”

“I am not here to change your plans.”

“Good,” Edmund said. They were silent for a moment simply looking at each other: Shiraz imploring, Edmond shielding. “I can walk you back to the house. The work day is over—Johanna and our parents are at home making supper. I was fetching water when I felt your tug.”

“Thank you for coming,” Shiraz said sincerely.

“Mmhm,” he answered and turned his back to lead the way to the house.

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The Bond
Kage—his kisses, his kisses…his lips soft, but insistent; hungry, but lingering….on her own lips, down her neck, his breath hot and sweet…he made her forget to think, to breathe—all she wanted was this one moment, with him, then the next, as he wrapped his very essence around hers. And she couldn’t decide if this was a good thing.

Kage, please understand, I love, I can be loved, and I give myself to you, but I cannot, I will not, be kept.

And it happened the way it happened anyway.

They both felt it, as their bond was formed—an intense coiling around the cores of their navels that cracked and rattled like a live voltage wire—it held the power to strike or kill unless the explosion could be absorbed or the weaving snake charmed.

“Is it supposed to hurt? The bond…” Camaria questioned in her mind, intoned to Kage, or may have said aloud…her eyes flung open, met his deep lavender pools… “Is it…” she gasped, his hands behind her neck, the back of her head, one travelling down her back, his mouth claimed hers once more…and neither one of them wanted it to stop despite the fear, the passion burning it away, consuming them both. Camaria’s offering, Kage’s terror of loss transmuted into possession—he needed, he wanted, he desired more than he knew he could ever desire any other living thing. And she was living, she was Life itself, willingly laying herself in his hands, his Heart already in hers even though she not once demanded it, and neither one of them could stop the claiming.

Having never had a bond of matrimony, Camaria’s thoughts tried to surface, blooming in her mind like a series of fireworks as her body was overtaken, overwhelmed with heat and wanting.

Our joining, perhaps this is The Way, The Way that it should be. Perhaps it is The Way for us.

What he whispered into her ear as he made Love to her, as he planted his seeds within:

“I can’t lose you, I can’t lose you,” his mantra repeated with every thrust of his body, with every beat of his heart. And she was afraid, not of Kage but of this. She couldn’t breathe, there were no words, no more thoughts. But she understood, her body, his Home and his Wings. She wanted to Love him through the pain, to have him unwound, to unwind him. So when he said, “you are mine,” she heard it as a question to be answered, and she gave him what he’d never had but had always needed.

“I am yours,” she answered, gripping him just as tightly around his lower back, his body between her legs.

“You are here,” another question.

“I am here.”

And they kissed once more, gentler this time, their rhythm slowing, a seal, a promise, a pause to make sure that it was True.
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Lifelines
The Barn was alive! And each day she was to expect them, Johanna popped out of bed, fresh and ready, hours before her Friends and the children were to enter through the wide-flung doors. Rather than John leaving Johanna to her quiet coffee at the kitchen table as was previously their pattern for the duration of their young marriage, Johanna left the house first and John to his daily routine.
That morning, as he ate his breakfast, John watched Johanna through the window contemplating her change and his place in it. He felt her renewed happiness in her morning pecks on his lips as she exited the house to fix or clean or clear or tend or prepare, leaving John to see himself out. She had stopped trying to coax him out to The Barn, to adventure with her over the hills further into the country, to places outside of his small zone of comfort.
He was grateful, also, yet in his quiet way, for the women who filled and animated the lonely places within Johanna and The Barn, places that were foreign to him in ways he could not quite sort into his predrawn maps through the labyrinth of psychology. Johanna scribbled all over those maps, and he could never quite get his bearings with her. And to any attempt to draw Johanna into his assessments of their arrangement, Johanna would say something to the effect of: “Fuck the hell off, John.” So, he did. There was distance, yes, but somehow this was a relief.
Molina and Indigo tried their best to keep their younger sisters occupied while the women practiced the Forbidden Art of Yoga, but Camaria had to leave her mat from time to time to locate Cressida who enjoyed a good game of hide-and-seek or to corral little Poppy who was drawn to the fields, small and newly walking but swift as the wind. Even Arek had a hand in the caring, gently taking smaller hands into his own delicate fingers leading the stray younger children back to their mother, having become increasingly comfortable engaging with the girls as they formed their own circle of Friends with and around him.
Johanna often played music in the barn, and this was no White Radio music. She had a transistor, some kind of digital player, and secretly traded recordings from the Southern District. And this was not nearly all of it—there was all kinds of secret stuff in that place that awaited discovery. It had become a studio of delight, play, and expression with more than a hint of mischief.
Johanna brazenly broke all of The Establishment’s rules of conduct and engagement, and this catalysed a feeling opposite to fear. She beamed brighter when her fire lit the Spirits within their Circle, her face reflecting the warmth of their glow, her unnamed/unidentified conspiracy to enliven and awaken coming to pass, to Life, knowing that their sacred space would never be raided or checked because of John’s Assignment.
And that, to Johanna, was just fucking great!
So in that space, they practiced The Forbidden Arts of Movement including yoga and dance, set to the emotional, untamed waves of unauthorized/uncensored music. The irony was not lost on her, though, John’s work for The Establishment being the very thing that protected their little sphere of Freedom, a sphere John chose not to enter.
The only thing missing was Zen, beloved Zen, who mourned beneath the cherry trees, her Wukang and their Chi, their beautiful son with shining black hair and the bluest of eyes. Someday the four of them would all be together, Johanna knew. Someday.
Camaria had left with her children, all of them reluctant to leave but looking forward to returning home to supper with Kage. Sinead lingered longer than usual, not wanting to have another encounter like she’d had the night before with Patrick, or perhaps she waited also to confide and confess, to finally speak to Johanna her secret. In any case, she did not quite get up the courage though she knew Johanna would not judge, and their conversation pivoted.
“You don’t drink wine?” Johanna asked as they settled into the lounge chairs near where Johanna kept her carboys and a few glasses. She’d poured herself a glass, and Sinead declined with a shake of her head and a wave of one hand.
“I can’t. For a couple of reasons, I guess. Patrick, my parents…” Sinead answered, accepting the water Johanna had poured for her.
Johanna’s eyes flicked up at her as she set down the bottle. She could be so intimidating sometimes…not that Sinead was afraid of her or felt controlled or unloved by her, but she could get so intense. Like a live wire. Johanna was scrappy when she was defending herself, but she was a lethal storm when she was protecting her Friends.
“I’m not trying to be a bitch,” Johanna said, softening somewhat and settling back into her chair. “You’re my friend, and I care about you. It’s just so fucking frustrating.”
“I know,” Sinead said, “I know,” she repeated, this time a little quieter.
“Can you be happy?” Johanna asked, sensing the effect she was having, releasing it from their field with one of her sighs.
“I can be happy here, when I am with you, with Camaria, but when I return to the city it’s not the same. Not at all.”
“I know what it’s like, what it’s like there. Like you are dead somehow, or want to be,” Johanna agreed, swirling the wine in her glass.
“My stomach gets into knots each time I approach the checkpoint, and little Arek, his hand squeezes mine tighter and tighter as we get closer to our Compartment Unit,” she confessed, taking a moment to glance at her little white-blonde angel who had fallen asleep on a nest of pillows beneath the loft.
“Come live with me, then,” Johanna offered.
“Oh, I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I could never get the Papers…and my parents…” Sinead countered, surprised, flustered.
“What about them, Sinead? What about them?” Johanna challenged, trying to temper what was brewing within her.
“Oh, I don’t know…they’re not well…who would care for them?” Then picking up the bottle, said, “let me pour you some more wine,” and made to pour more for Johanna, Johanna not taking her lapis eyes off of her Friend as she leaned in with her glass to meet her half way.
“Fuck that, Sinead. You deserve so much better. You don’t owe anyone anything, especially people who abuse you like that,” Johanna said, leaning back into her chair again, reaching for her hat and plopping it onto her head to shade her eyes from the setting sun that streamed in from the open doors.
Sinead flinched a bit but knew this was Love, that Johanna’s Love was a crack of lightning, and when Sinead left to walk home that evening, her little Arek in tow, the sound it made thundered through her, low but steady.
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The Crown of Tibet
Four weeks a Father now. Four weeks an eternity in a blink. It was Time. The Bond was strong enough now for him to depart; the Anchor would hold.
“I will be back soon,” Kai promised, smoothing the fuzzy peach down of Lila’s hair that sprung right back up as soon as his hand passed over. He kissed her already plump cheek. “Just a couple of days,” he said. Lila blinked her black orb eyes, a toothless smile spreading wide across her wee face for her Father.
“Ggggg,” she sounded from the back of her throat, and Kai hugged her close, breathing her in, her little arms at her sides not yet old enough to grasp.
“GrandMother, GrandFather, and Kilo will take very good care of you as they always do,” Kai said as he transferred the babe to The Ice Man’s waiting arms.
“Do what you must, Son; I respect your Way,” The Ice Man said to him, “but be sure to come back within the days promised. We do not plan on losing any more of our little clan, you know?” he commanded, unruly eyebrows and voice rising a bit. The babe, so used to her GrandFather’s timbre, his volume, that the small outburst did not startle her one bit, lay calmly in his arms watching him speak.
“I will return. To you all,” Kai promised again, this time to The Ice Man, Amara, and Kilo who stood in the living area of the main cabin for the departure. At the sight of them and the prospect of leaving, Kai’s heart bloomed with a heaviness not of burden but gratitude. The Love was so great that he rubbed his chest with it.
“Nothing could keep me away from you, my Home,” he concluded, bowing his head to his family.
“Cousin, are you sure I cannot escort you?” Kilo offered for the third time that morning.
“Thank you, Kilo, but I need to do this alone as everyone must. You understand. I know you do,” Kai said as he clapped him on the shoulder.
“Of course,” Kilo affirmed, nodding once, and he did.
He had made his choice.
So Kai flew even further North, then a little to the East, winding his way around the ranges to the rim of the Eastern Sage Mountains, the domain of the Sherpas: Tibet.
—------------
Kai landed at the southernmost shack on the edge of the small settlement and shifted back into his Human form. He entered the single-room guest residence to find a simple pack containing clothes and other provisions that had been left for him on the neatly made single bed. A candle sat atop a simple wooden table, a box of matchsticks beside the stone it sat upon. A wooden chair occupied one of the corners. A small black wood stove was stocked with logs ready for lighting, kettle on top, a pile of wood neatly stacked on the floor. The windows, one on each of the East and West walls of the square room, were clean and clear, opening to a view of the ascending slope to the West and the paths that meandered down into the forest to the North and the East. The air smelled of the timbre the cabin was made of. A bronze bell, a lone stick of incense, a box of tea, and a clay teapot with a single cup were the only additional items in the room.
Kai opened the pack and dressed himself in the garments: relaxed trousers, a woolen long-sleeved robe and single-pocketed sash over a raw-silk blouse and stiff collared shirt, all in their natural colours. It was chilly this far North despite it being summer, and he was glad to have the warmth of the clothing and the fire that he lit, the smoke that danced from the chimney signalling his arrival. Amara had intoned a message announcing Kai’s coming to the Sherpas a few days before. So, they were ready for him, quietly waiting to guide him to heights he had not even gone to in flight.
Kai’s thoughts during the flight to Tibet consisted of the usual contemplations: the why’s and the history; the loss and the grief; the death of his child, of his Beloved: the babe he wished he could see become a boy, a man, the honey-lips he wished to kiss even one more time. He contemplated the end: of his family, of the first world he’d ever known on The Rock, of his own existence.
Tallulah was ever present, and Kai suspected she always would be. She was his tether, his grounding, even now and especially in those early months after their first meeting when he’d lived alone in the first nest he’d built in the tree canopy of the mountain. He’d visited Tallulah, The Ice Man, and Amara in his Human form by day, returning in the form of a Raven to his roost for the night. He’d even flown South a few times to experience the heat, but he’d always come back to the crystal clarity, the frosty/clear mouth/lashes/lips/breath of Cold Mountain.
“Kai,” Tallulah said one day only a few weeks after he’d shown himself in his Human form, skinny, exposed, and naked in the fallen leaves. She was unsurprised by his nakedness, yet had swiftly covered him with her shawl. “This is silly. Why don’t you just live with us?” she’d invited. And he could not refuse.
So, the very next morning the Sherpas came for him, a man and a woman, quietly arriving just as Kai emerged from the small shack. He’d dressed in the cool space as the embers of the fire he’d left to dwindle in the night danced their last flickers, cups of tea freshly warming his belly, and the thick wool of his sashed robe sealing in the heat of his body. He’d covered his hands and feet with woolen cotton-lined mitts and boots and his head with a cap with flaps that dropped over each ear, tassels hanging from the braided tie strings. Though the day was almost blindingly bright, it would get colder as they climbed higher to the peak.
There wasn’t much chatting amongst the trio after they’d clasped one fist into the other hand in front of their chests, elbows up, head bowing in pleasant greeting. The man and the woman were dressed in similar attire to Kai’s, and both of his guides were significantly shorter than him, skin bronzed despite the lack of heat in their climate, narrow, close set moss-green eyes similar to each other’s. Kai thought they might be siblings. Yes, a Brother and a Sister. And they introduced themselves as _______ and ________.
Kai was grateful yet somewhat somber, internally readying for his journey, though he listened intently as the Sherpas instructed him on the practicalities regarding safety, climbing technique, the weather, and the state of the mountain. They were serious, sincere, wanted to impart caution with their tandem teaching, each giving the other but a moment to instruct, the yin and the yang, the positive and the negative, the full picture, gesturing to the mountain as they spoke of destinations and rest places, pointing to its peak as they prepared him for the climb.
“The weather may look calm down here, but the mountain exists in another system, another Plane,” the woman said.
“Do you see the clouds? There? See? The ones that are white at the top but look dark and heavy at the bottom?” she went on.
“Yes,” Kai answered as his gaze followed her pointing finger.
“It is snowing at the peak, and the clouds will not disburse for some time,” she told him.
“We have not had an avalanche for many years now, though,” her brother assured him.
“Yes, I agree…that has been a great relief,” the woman conceded.
“I do not sense any shifting snow, either, the ridges are not heavy with it, so I think we should make the trip without too much trouble,” the brother explained, as optimistic as ever.
“Not many from the Lowlands make it to the top,” the woman told Kai, yet not unkindly.
“They have not been conditioned to such heights,” her brother added.
“Many get altitude sickness,” the woman said.
“But not many succumb to the sickness…” her brother added.
“That is, unless they do not heed their body’s warnings,” she continued
“We do not wish to lose anyone on the mountain today,” the man said.
“So heed the warnings,” his sister finished.
“Not to worry. I assure you both…I know heights,” Kai simply said. “I will be mindful,” he assured them, although this did not mean he would be cautious as his quest did not involve caution. The Sherpas exchanged looks, but they did not question nor did they comment any further.
Having led many Travellers/Journeyers up the mountain, the Sherpas knew where to climb, where to rest, and when to stop before the altitude started to create havoc within the Human body. Kai patiently listened to them speak, each continuing to take turns with a few words of caution and reassurance, but all three of them knew—both Kai and his sibling guides—that Kai would do as he wished.
It was not for the Sherpas to assess or to assume, in fact, it wasn’t even for them to know anything except that a Traveller had come to climb the mountain. Every Traveller had their own reasons, why the mountain called them, why they answered that call. The Sherpas’ only wish was to do their best to keep them alive and well as they attempted the ascent to GaiaSophia’s Crown. Kai kept his reasons to himself.
So, they began the climb, the Sherpas unaware of what he was planning. It was possible, perhaps even likely, that they would not have let him attempt such a thing had they known.
Though the day was pleasant, the air grew thinner and colder the higher they hiked. The trail was not treacherous, though it did wind and turn around rock formations and impassable crevices. Flowers bloomed along the path, namely the conical gold-petaled ones with little scent yet, somehow, an abundance of personality. The intermittent clouds held snow in their bellies.
They reached the halfway point at midday, rested, ate some lunch, then set off again in hopes of reaching the camp site where they would rest, recalibrate, consider whether the Traveller would be able to handle the higher altitude, able to carry on to the summit.
The weather was merciful, the clouds not releasing their flurries until they reached the camp site and were almost through setting up their small tents and rolling out the thin bed rolls they’d carried on ropes slung crosswise over their shoulders. They made a fire, broke bread together, ate the rolls and dried provisions in virtual silence watching the flames dance and flicker, illuminating the growing darkness, as the Sherpas respected each Traveller’s space for contemplation.
“Are you well?” the man asked Kai.
“Yes, quite,” Kai replied.
“Can you breathe well? Do you feel ill at all? Is your mind clear?” ____ inquired. “We are at 7800 feet. It gets challenging once we pass the ridge in that direction,” she said pointing into the darkness. “That is the Choice Point, where some decide to turn back. The summit, a few hours beyond that point, tops the mountain at 11,000 feet.”
“I am quite fine, thank you,” Kai repeated.
“Climb to your own summit, Kai. Everyone’s is different,” the man said. “It is often at the very spot you are standing now.”
“Yes, I know this,” Kai assured them, recognizing his own words as an echo of Django’s when he and Kilo were cautioning him before journeying to The Timeless House of Time. This made him smile.
“What are you smiling about?” the man inquired, smiling a little himself, nudging his way into the joke.
“Ah, just remembering someone,” Kai answered, and they both smiled a bit wider, as that was enough of an answer for the Sherpa.
After yawns and good nights, the Sherpas retired to their tents, Kai staying with the fire as it dwindled and burned itself out. Hours passed, the stars shifted their places in the sky overhead, and when dawn broke, the Sherpas crawled out of their small shelters to find a note under a rock instead of Kai in his tent.
So, they settled in, tidied and cut back somewhat the unruly areas of the camp area, made conversation, played a game of Stones ___ always carried in his pocket…and they waited. For they understood the Traveller’s journey, and Kai’s words told them he knew what he was facing.
Thank you for your care and attention. You have taught me well. Please wait for me here. I must do this alone. I will return. I am hoping before night falls.
—-----------------
When he set out, it was three hours before dawn would break and the Sherpa’s would find the note and not Kai in his tent. Being used to the cool clarity of the mountains, the conditioning of his lungs through the work of breath, the regulation of the heat of his body through daily plunges into the cold with The Ice Man, Kai was ready for the altitude with the aptitude he hoped would enable his Human body to crest the peak.
The flurries had stopped at the time of his departure, and it was yet another brilliantly bright day; a few blooms of high clouds passed overhead, content to carry on their way. Birds of all breeds and plumage went about their business, some noticing him, others not, and Kai stood still for moments at a time watching the lesser hawks soar and screech before rousing himself again to move forward.
Amara had told him stories about the Great Hawks who were much larger than the smaller variation that swooped and circled about him as he hiked. They hailed from The Roost not far from Tibet, and Kai wondered what it would be like to encounter one, to ride on its great feathered back in his Human form; if even the small hawks caught his fancy with such rapture, gripped him as if willfully and willingly caught in their talons, then what impression would an encounter with the Great Ones leave?
He marvelled at their vision, their precision, their majesty, and though he knew he should not, he compared himself to them, both his slow and lurching Human, and his spaztic, ungraceful Raven…he let the worm of doubt wriggle itself from his beak and into his thoughts. He envied. He coveted. He wished…to be more like them and less like himself. If only Tallulah were here to convince him otherwise, to smooth his ruffled black feathers.
He wondered: was the view of the Hawk broader than his own? Was he the small Raven pecking at its eyeballs? Had he become a cataract? A distortion? An obstruction? He was soon to find out, and to do that, he had to disappear, to clear the cloud of his own small vision.
So, what the Sherpas did not know was that Kai had come to The Crown to die. To erase himself. To become invisible so he could finally See.
And See he did, mid-day when the clouds grew heavy and joined into larger masses above, mirroring his own internal world. He hiked higher, left the birds and their song behind, the aether condensing around him, his head beginning to pound with every woosh of blood through his skull, his brain squeezing with the pressure. His inner compass spun, his gut flipped and turned, sick with disorientation. He tried to thump the building/flooding fluid from his lungs, to relieve the discomfort of this transition just a bit. And when he rode the knife edge of panic, he considered shifting but determined to see his plan through, to follow this Way up which required him to go through.
Though he was certain that his feet remained on the path, and he was indeed still moving, he could not manoeuvre his body in the way he wanted, so he stumbled and then crawled the last few feet to the top. He felt the sensations of it all: the air, his breath, his life force, thinning, as he finally collapsed and lay on his back, choking, the world flexing/shuddering/pulsing in and out of focus. But the sky did not open; it darkened, along with his consciousness, as his outer eyes closed.
And then all was black, as it is with every end and every beginning. One moment within all moments. One stillpoint at the zero. For that moment, all was forgotten: his memories, his experiences, the journey he was on, himself…there was no pain nor judgement, no regret or querries…the question “why” no longer relevant. All was open to him and he to All…he was not human nor bird, not a body or personality…he was All and Everything. He was Soul. He was Love.
Yet, and yet, something called the fragments that made Kai back together. To be something, yes…to be someone.
Kai? The Voice said. Kai? it repeated, a little more insistent this time.
Am I dead? he answered.
Yes, was The Voice’s expected reply.
So, this is it, then? Kai marvelled.
Are you afraid? The Voice asked.
Not any more.
And as Kai lingered in death, his life came back to him in a ___ wave of sensation and emotion, in a story without sequence. He was overwhelmed with Love, awash in the tastes, smells, desires, experiences his most cherished—and the honey, his first taste of honey, sweetly held it all.
I wish to live, he breathed though he did not breathe.
Go then. Live. They are waiting for you…
It was then The Great Hawks spotted him lying limp and unconscious on his back in the snow—a pair of them, soaring in the sky. A woman rode one of their backs, fiery hair blowing like a flame behind her, silver eyes as sharp and intense as the great beast whose back she sat upon. A man rode the other, dressed in brown flying leathers that matched his companion’s, argent hair feathered up from his face like wings.
And though Kai no longer saw with his physical eyes, he felt the whoosh of great wings blow the black hair back from his brow, cap lost on the mountain at some point he could not remember. He saw himself being lifted, limp and lifeless, through their eyes, the Sherpas below who began their descent at the sighting of the Great Hawks and their passengers passing overhead, ending their patient vigil.
Cupped gently in his talon, the hawk carrying the woman also carried Kai’s body to The Roost, to see what could be done to warm and to heal the Life back into his bones.
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Fledgeling
Curled up in front of the amber fire that her Beloved kept stoked, Amara lay her chin on her great white paws. Her purrs kept Tallulah mending as she lay in the fur of her mother’s muscular softness. Tallulah rested her head, her ear to the rumbling, tears wetting Amara’s fur, the heat of the fire drying them again. The vibrations in her mother’s chest healed her, the rhythmic beat of her heart a grown child’s lullaby.

For days, aeons, in the realm where Time was suspended, Mother and Daughter closed their eyes, slowly opened them to watch the fire, closed them again. There together, they flew with their Little Raven in the DreamScape living out their nocturnal and diurnal Dreams. There together, they slept while waking and woke while sleeping, held their little bird in the cradle (on the perch) of an open hand.

Oh, I am sorry, cousin, Tallulah received from Camaria who sat in her white castle in the Western Realm yet also with her cousin and aunt in the In-Between, feeding her own hungry babe from her full and aching breasts, milk and tears flowing for all of them.

There was a bird, yes, a young bird with black feathers and keen eyes, soaring with a larger bird, the same glossy black, the same keen eyes. Tallulah saw them through the haze between the worlds, she soared with them in her contemplations, her meditations, her imaginations. Sometimes she wandered outside into the snow, to turn her face up to the sun, watching them from the ground, a soft knitted shawl draped over her shoulders by her father or by Kilo, who carefully watched her.

Tallulah spoke to her Son often, and these were not the mutterings of the broken. Her words glided (floated?) to her Little Raven’s ears for the door between them was completely unhinged. It was a very normal thing to speak to The Departing, a sense unfathomable, unsuspected, even feared in the West. The spirits were all around The Embodied if they only listened for their whispers, their calls, their songs on the breeze. So, Tallulah sang, and hummed, and spoke quietly to the needle-edged branches, to the blue-white sheet of sky as she wandered through the trees, the dapples of sunlight gracing her head, her cheeks, her little bird as he alighted on those very branches, as he took to that very sky.

“Soon I will learn to fully Straddle the realms, my Son. And our worlds will merge together,” she whispered to the bird who swayed on his temporary perch, cocked his head to one side, then the other, twitching as if on the edge of flight. Yet, she knew nothing would be quite the same, once she let him go. She wanted to go, too, but her hand on Amara’s fur—as they walked and stopped and walked some more—kept her feet on the ground.

Kai, Kilo, and The Ice Man sat in a circle of tree stumps near the woodpile briefly resting from their work watching the snow leopard and Tallulah walking through the trees, Tallulah sporadically flapping her hands and uttering sounds they knew were not meant for Amara. Sometimes her laugh tinkled through the trees, and the men welcomed the sound, for they knew once the sky darkened and they retired to bed, Tallulah would linger in one of great chairs, draw her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, her face changing from delight to longing as she watched out the window.

“I did not stop it. His death,” Kai mused, confessed, hung his head down as he rested his elbows on his thighs.

“You could not have,” Kilo said.

“I am not sure if that is True,” Kai said.

“Go to Janus. Sit with him, Kai. You will understand. At least enough to know what you can do and what is not to be done,” Kilo implored his cousin for the third, perhaps the fourth time since the babe’s death.

“You have wings, Kai,” The Ice Man added, “and reason for them. Janus understands such things. I feel the meaning myself, yet I cannot find the words. It is part of The Great Mystery!” he added as he adjusted his body to stretch one side, then the other.

“I feel that Truth, Ice Man (what does he call him?), like my Little Raven is leading me somewhere, but we are circling. For some reason we are circling,” Kai said as he removed his gloves, rubbed his face with a slender hand.

“She needs Time, before the Letting Go,” Kilo said and reached out to place a hand on Kai’s shoulder.

“Perhaps it is that,” Kai said, glancing into the trees.

“Perhaps you both do,” The Ice Man said, body somewhat still for the first time that day, turning his head to look at the young man.

“Or maybe I go back in Time,” Kai said as he lifted his eyes to return The Ice Man’s gaze.

“Now, that is another Story all-together,” Kilo said, giving Kai’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before he let his hand fall back to rest on his tree stump.

“It’s just that, when I finally see the pattern, it is brief, lands like an intricate snowflake, the lattice of it, the form and the structure so complex, so unique, but then it melts, and I can’t even remember what it was I saw,” Kai tried to explain.

“Go to Janus.”

“You will re-member.”

“I will.”

—--------

Later when Kilo and The Ice Man carried on with their work, patching and sprucing up the longhouses that lined the West side of the glen for the coming spring traffic, Kai lingered on the stump.

He felt her approach, with a sense that defied her stealth, and was the first to speak.

“I saw his death,” he confessed, couldn’t help but confess again and again.

“I know,” Amara answered after an elegant shift of form, then wrapping herself with one of the thick robes her Beloved left for her around the clearing.

“I did not want to believe it.” Kai said, gaze focused somewhere in the trees; he could not yet look at her.

“I know,” Amara said as she sat on the stump her Beloved had warmed only minutes before. “Kai?” his name spoken arrested his attention, and he looked to her face, a seeking, a question: Do you forgive me?

“Sometimes all we can do is experience what comes,” she said.

“I did not know what to do,” he said.

“What if you knew precisely what to do and in fact did it?” Amara posited.

“What do you mean?” Kai asked, somewhat puzzled.

“I thank you, Kai,” she said in answer.

“Why? For what?”

“For gifting her the space to hope,” Amara said slowly, deliberately, “to have had that untainted Time with him where she could be Present for each moment without concern for what would come. For there she created a thread of possibility.” The sentiment hung suspended, embraced Kai for a sweet and tender moment.

“It still exists, the thread, braided into her like the ribbons in her hair,” Amara confirmed. “And Time will grace you with the felt experience of healing.”

Kai cried then—shame, guilt, regret, sorrow releasing—brightening, alighting, his chest lighter with every wave of pain received by the sky. Perhaps he need not go to Janus after all.

“Thank you for your forgiveness, Mama Amara,” he said as a few more tears fell from his lashes, this time in gratitude.

“Kai, Son, be free of it. Beloved to my Daughter, Father to my first GrandBabe, there is nothing to forgive.”

After some time, Kai’s tears slowed, and he smiled brighter than he’d had in months.

“For a woman of few words, Mama Amara, you sure had some good ones today,” he said, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Amara huffed a laugh, shifted to the white of the snow leopard, and padded off into the soft chatter of the forest, the sensation of the soft brush of her tail lingering on Kai’s hand well after she left.

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Django’s Heart
Swift and sure-footed as the gazelle he chased, Django was close on its tail, running as fast as one could run while weaving through the thick and untamed bush. He did not intend to capture the creature, nor was he hunting—he tracked, kept up, with no other intent but to see where it would go, to see where it would take him if he followed.
As they ran, Django forgot himself, where he came from, the events that led to this very chase, what might happen if he did catch up. He was completely absorbed in every footfall, every present breath, every weave and bob that was required to navigate around each branch or vine, over each rock or fallen tree trunk. He felt yet did not think about every pump, twitch, and burst of muscle, every fibre of his being as he ran.
Django was the gazelle. He emulated, imitated, became at one with the animal, seeing the next moments on the trail with its globelike eyes, feeling the wisp of the grasses on its thin ankles, the whip of the branches on its perked and soft ears, the crunch of the leaves beneath its hard hooves, the blast of energy surging through its lean, bone-strong legs. He tossed intellect aside and unleashed instinct to guide his body, to weave and bob, sensing, manoeuvring, adjusting, assured and sure-footed, no forethought or afterthought to slow him down.
First the animal, then Django, burst out of the trees and into a savannah of swaying, kneehigh golden grasses, and if the gazelle were to run full tilt in the open plain, Django could surely track it but could never keep up. But instead it stopped, about 20 feet into the open field, lifted its head to acknowledge Django who was eying it from the periphery catching his breath, both creatures panting from the chase. The animal dipped its head to sniff the ground, assessing, then lifted it again, briefly stood waiting, watching, as Django started to walk toward it.
The gazelle’s form began to change, became that of a human, a man, small, lithe, brown-skinned, donned in nothing but worn, loose-fitted pants that barely reached his dusty ankles and a drum he had slung/strung over one bare shoulder with a tattered and twisted strap. His earth-brown eyes twinkled with mischief, coarse haphazard braids sprung from his wrinkled head, only a couple of inches long but wild.
GrandDad Mosi.
What could he be here to show me now? Django thought, and bowed his head in reverent greeting to his beloved Elder.
As Django reached the circle of Mosi’s aura, Mosi did not speak but began to beat the drum with his hand…boom boom boom…he did not take his eyes off of his GrandSon, but beat on, rhythm quickening as Django paced and moved in a circle in the grass around where his GrandDad stood. Round and round he went, and the pace of the beat quickened, faster and faster until Django stopped circling, his body beginning to move, twitch, hop, attempting to match the quickening rhythm with some sort of dance, some kind of response to the manipulation of the drumbeat.
But it was too much, unnatural, too fast, the beat not coming from the inside as it was with the gazelle; it was pounding, deafening, so Django covered his ears, squeezed his eyes closed as if that could stop the sense of sound. Yet, it did, it did, it turned him inward, and there he found his heart. Bump, bump, it said. Bump, bump, it repeated. Bump bump. Bump bump. In time, measured, holding him in its knowing, in its confident consistency. It did not interfere but calmed him, soothed him, brought him back to centre, to now.
Django opened his eyes to see that Mosi had stopped with the drumming, watching with his own knowing eyes.
“This is simple, yes?” were Mosi’s only words.
“I do not need someone else’s drumming. I only need the beat of my own heart,” Django asserted.
The yesssss of GrandDad Mosi’s smile spread wide over his face that was wrinkled and brown as an old apple. Django’s beat grew stronger, and he danced a kind of slow hopping, and Mosi danced with him, playfully serious, in rhythm with Django’s own Heart. It held and contained, consistent, sustained, effortlessly endless; the only thing that could ever feel True.
“What I show you is not what you should be but how to discover what you are. You are your own shaman.”
And Django slowed his dance to touch foreheads with his Elder and said in place of thank you: “GrandDad.”
“SoulTracker,” Mosi replied, smile wide but softer now with Love, with Adoration, with Joy, warm from the golden thread that pulsed stronger than before between them, throughout his GrandSon’s Individuation. “I am me, you are you, we are we,” Mosi laughed, lingered for a moment, then raised his head as he patted the back of his GrandSon’s neck.
“Let us play!” Mosi exclaimed, raising his eyebrows, eyes dancing, and changed once more into the gazelle, into two gazelles, one sprinting one way, the second another.
Now for the choice! Which one to track?! And Django’s heart began to quicken once more.
“The power of choice is in the present. Be here. Listen. Do not think. Every choice will be the correct one,” they said before bounding off, paths diverging into the swaying, golden grasses.
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The 7
The Gathering consisted of the 7 Green Envoys who stood at attention in the Preparation House Yard—clothed in the dress of their respective Settlements—facing the Council of Acharyas and Elders who stood before them in a semi-circle embrace. An assembly of the Oracles, The MapMaker, and The NameSayer sat on brightly coloured cushions on the dais awaiting their invitation to speak and contribute. On the floor, the 7’s community and loved ones sat in chairs in a cluster behind the Envoys, groomed and sparkling, yet dressed in casual attire.

If not motley, the Assembly of the 7 was a sight to be proud of. Erris, the oldest of the group by about 5 years, wore a long grey kilt over woollen socks and thick boots that reached his hairy knees beneath. He watched from under his heavy dark brow with his deep green eyes, unruly, black curly hair neatly arranged for the occasion.

Ashlyn, cousin to Camaria, was the most formally dressed, in the style of the twin city of Sirius—although her loosely curled chestnut hair was unbound and hazel-green eyes soft with emotion—she wore a blue high-collared button up coat, sharp pants, and black ankle boots which made her look taller than her short stature.

Lyra wore tight fitting riding clothes and a brown sleeveless vest. Deep auburn hair burned down her back, and her sharp eyes watched as intently as Erris’, hers a molten silver that was rare even in this realm.

Kilo’s sister Shiraz—who was the only one of the 7 to have travelled to the Western Realm once before two years ago at the tender age of 16—wore simple linen pants and blouse, golden hair swept up with various glinting combs. The browns and coppers of her pinwheel eyes danced and churned.

Angel donned a form-fitting pink button up with tailored matching pants that highlighted his long, brown muscled frame. He stood with relaxed attention, and as always, radiated a penetrating warmth.

Grace, tight black afro springing from her head, wore a cream-white blouse and long, flowing skirts, each layer a different colour of violet, raspberry, and tangerine, her thick lips softly sculpted into a hint of a smile.

And Camaria chose practical pants and tunic, although the pants were emerald and the tunic black to contrast.

Their anticipation was evident through the attentive posture they held. The meaning this event held for them shone through the various talismans they adorned. Shiraz her combs, others with piercings, bangles, necklaces, and rings, and Camaria, the key that hung from her necklace rested in the hollow above her collarbone.

Kilo, who wore loose-fitting cream linens not unlike his sister Shiraz, sat with the rest of The Gathering and watched the back of Camaria’s head that was full of soft dark curls that spiralled to her shoulders, knowing that if he could see her face it would be deep in earnest concentration.

The Council was represented by 10 of their Elders—the Acharyas: Hector, Anahata, young Hoku, Furkan, and Yara; and the remaining 5: Mosi, The IceMan, Adonis, Jazz, and Octavia—serving as Witnesses to this auspicious event.

“Friends, welcome!” Hector began in his deep, rumbling voice, his bearded face serious yet inspired. “We are here today to participate in and celebrate our Green Envoys’ last day of preparation. Over the last three months, they have been spending their days in this sacred space preparing for their journeys ahead.”

Then addressing the 7, he said: “Aios, we honour you,” and The Gathering echoed his sentiment.

“Our community has been joined by the MapMaker, The NameSayer, and The Oracles who have come to share their Wisdom and Blessings with our new Green Envoys,” he went on with a bow of his silver-haired head to the mystical group.

“Now, without too much pomp and ceremony,” Hector continued, “I would like to get to the point of why we are here. SisterKalea, would you please start us off with some words and a story?” he invited as he gestured toward the tall woman whose silver hair was unbound for the occasion, eyes flowering with tiny bursts of colour.

From where she stood on the floor beside the dais listening to her brother’s welcome speech, The StoryWeaver moved into the centre of the space. As she made her way, she paused to greet each of the 7 Green Envoys in turn with a gentle but present hand on the back of their necks and their names on her lips. Each of them greeted her in return, lowering their heads and uttering, “MamaKalea.”

When she reached her daughter, Camaria, they exchanged greetings just as Kalea did with each of the others, without special treatment, as all of their treatment was special.

When she finished her round, she ascended the two steps of the simple dais, turned to face The Gathering, and with her rich, mesmerising tone, began to set the stage for the forthcoming journeys.

“Young Envoys, we must begin with orienting you in the Realised Reality of the Western Realm to prepare you for what you could encounter there, but know this: this Reality is only what has been Realised in that Realm by a limited imagination.

“Your purpose as Envoy, as I am sure BrotherHector has told you, is to observe, experience, and participate in the elevation of Humanity’s frequency. And you must always always remember that the Reality you enter is only one Reality in an infinite Universe of Possibility. You will be entering this Realm by agreeing to it, but remember, all of you,” she said as she looked each Envoy in the eyes, “that you can, at any time, come Home, to the Realised Realm of the East, after you have explored what you wish to explore of the Western Realm, Inside the Veil, after you have learned what it would teach you about all that can be learned.

“This Reality, it only holds you there if you participate in its creation, it only holds you there if you agree to it. Yet, it is not for you to disagree with the Reality our people in the West hold and that holds them, but to agree to something else. If you carry this Knowing with you, at any time, you can be free.

“I am beginning with a story of the past, and this story takes place in this realm of Time and Space—the past is revisited only to orient, to commemorate, to witness, and to record—but no historical story need be the present, and it need not be the future. The present and the future are up to each and every one of us, it is up to each and every one of you, as we co-create the world together, with a history from but not dependent on the past. And in any case, even that history can be re-written.” Kalea briefly paused, then continued.

“Some will tell you that The Western Realm is a nightmarish place. And in many ways, it is. It is unlike the Eastern Realm just as any other reality would be. It will be foreign, strange, uncomfortable, and often lonely. But it is not my place to set any expectation for you—it is only to acknowledge that you will experience something unlike anything you have ever experienced before. And this is the point of your calling, the point of the Calling of the Envoy—to explore, to experience, and to learn from both the shadow and the light, because without one, one cannot have the other.

“This exploration will require great courage, deep curiosity, and the strength to remain open when fear may grasp you by the hand. Walk with it, this fear, for it is trying to help you, but do not let it lead.” Engrossed and enchanted, none of The Gathering nor the 7 Green Envoys took their eyes off of Kalea, not even Kilo whose eyes always sought Camaria if ever she was in the same room.

“Now let us begin the story…” Kalea paused, opened her hands to The Gathering before her, then gathering her ample flowing skirts, placed them in her lap as she sat in the simple wooden chair placed on the dais for her. Silver bangles tinkled on her wrists as she moved.

“The Western Realm is dictated by The Empire, and The Empire does not need to enforce by force. They need only plant the seed of thought, and the people sit without bars in their own cages, they self-destruct, and they disconnect from each other. The Envoy is the witness, the empathetic observer, the student, the hollow bone, while leaving the cages open, their paths clear, their threads back Home and to each other braided as the tapestry hanging over the hearth. The Envoy is a source of reconnection.

“The people Inside the Veil are suffering, and ironically, the more they hurt, the more of The Veil is stripped away. Yet, the people cannot see nor find The Way to a More Beautiful World until they are ready, until they have, quite literally, suffered enough. And this is both a requirement AND an emphatic declaration. ‘I have suffered enough to now understand.’ AND ‘I have suffered enough! I am done suffering!’” At that, Kalea leaned forward in her chair.

“The people who are making these declarations are those who are ready to give up learning through Suffering and are ready to grow through Love. We long for all of Humanity to make this Awakening shift, yet we do not assume to know how that Awakening must take place. We trust that, at all times, everything is perfect, everything is All Right and as it must be for the lessons we are all here to learn. We do not evangelise, judge, or convince—we simply be present in a higher frequency—we invite ourselves and others into the experience of self-illumination. We Love, and we Receive.

“The Envoy is not benign, nor impotent, nor passive. We participate in each new Reality’s creation. Therefore, the Envoy’s second task aside from Being is to assist Humanity in tipping the scales, in turning the tide, from one Manifested Reality to another; for it is when the proverbial 100th monkey learns to wash the dirt from her food that the rest understand that they need not eat the grit. They will put down the baggage that had been weighing them down, strip off the cloaks that had been covering them up. You will not change anyone, not even yourself, but you will be changed, through the realisation of what you already are.

“What blinds the people who have agreed to live Inside the Veil, what conceals The Way to a More Beautiful World, is their fear of this change that they have named The Mind Virus—a nefarious sickness, a wild, invasive, deadly entity. Which is not what it could be.

“What possibility it holds, my Loves,” Kalea said, eyes twinkling, “is a brilliant adaptation, a mutation of the mind, body, and spirit catalysed for Humanity to survive the deadening, consistently and constantly painful way of life Inside the Veil. This Virus is the chance to upgrade and to evolve.

“We have been undergoing this upgrade here in the East, the gears of it clicking into motion during the last Turning of the Dharma, in the days of my own Great Ancestors. Yet even our own evolution is not complete, as it never will be, as all of Humanity has chosen this form to experience an infinite and eternal becoming.

“So, The Veil is an obstruction of these Truths, it is fear itself—of pain, of change, of the unknown, of loss, of the possibility that the beliefs, systems, and Reality Humanity has been fighting to hang on to have limited, obscured, and oppressed the Human spirit, our very co-creative Involvement in our collective Evolvement.

“When acting out of fear, we shy away from the very thing that will bring forth our own strength, which is not a force against what we believe to be outside of us, but our energetic source of life that comes from within.

“Through the challenges put forth to you in the days and years to come, you will become and become. And in that becoming, you will further Realise your Gifts, your Genius, your Divinity, and through Realising your own, you will help reveal these things in every person you dance, sing, and be present with, for one cannot see what they are made of until they are challenged, pushed, and free.

“And Freedom, my Loves, is not a holding on but a letting go. Remember this above all else.

“Since this is not always a comfortable process, and since the function of the Mind Virus has been misunderstood, the Sleeping Sickness was created to suppress it. This Sleeping Sickness is self-induced, voluntarily consumed, and distributed to the people by The Empire.

“Dilapidated Sleeping Sickness billboards hang all over The Western Realm, littering the CultureScape with propaganda, deception, and untruths based in fear. For it is, in fact, the Sleeping Sickness that causes the side-effects which is Humanity's greatest and most prolonged Suffering—and this side-effect is a deep and painful forgetting.

“As each person is waking up—either by making a new choice or by being shaken awake through tragedy, guidance, or time—they are starting to see through The Veil, the Maya, the illusion of the world they have chosen and created. And there are, as all of you know, many people awakening as we approach the Precipice of Humanity’s inevitable Great Awakening.

“The participation of those in the Western Realm in Humanity’s healing, our becoming Whole, will require this Awakening—an attentive presence—to break out of the algorithms of media feeds, the stream of indoctrination, the noise that once distracted and overwhelmed them, to dissipate, so the essential can flood their being, so they can allow epiphanies both big and small, so they are inspired and given the space, once again, to care and to Love…

“And it is not just the individual people of the Western Realm that must heal but the entire culture, the CultureScape, that is part of what makes up their Maya, their limited Realised Reality, because they are divine as are we, they are not separate from us, the borders between our Realms are illusions—we are not separate, there is no “we” and no “they”, we are One.

“In an attempt at sense-making, at safety, and born out of fear, some of the people in the Western Realm have become misguided evangelists and missionaries who move deeper into the Sleeping Sickness and attempt to spread their non-sense—but some, some have become essayists, artists, filmmakers, and healers, The Straddlers who pepper the Western Realm with Truth as they move in and out of their own.

“The Straddlers are suppressed by The Empire—both physically and mentally, but it is their Spirits that fuel their creations. Some find The Way to us here in the Eastern Realm, but many live underground, are caught and punished, or are censored and silenced through book burnings, character defamation, propaganda, cover-ups, and information control. But they protest and dismantle—through their art, their words, their teachings, their heartfelt offerings—they open the doors to a greater Knowing, though many Westerners still walk by them, their work, their longing for Truth, without a second thought. We set forth to plant the seeds of second thoughts.

“The people of the Western Realm who receive, uncover, and deprogram can end their Suffering—both their perspective and their experience of it. They can realise, create a new Reality, from the great and infinite Field of Possibility.

“Although they suffer, they are not victims but participants, because the power these forces have over the people in the Western Realm is Realised by choice that is based on an untruth—that their current Reality is the only Reality.

“So, why, why would any Soul choose the path of Suffering, of separation, of limitation?

“One might say that it is to experience the ecstasy of becoming Whole again, for how can one experience being connected if they have never been disconnected, how can one understand what it is to feel Whole if they were never separate?

“And now, however, now, we are ready to learn from Love. To be Love. To fully Realise that we have never been separate. We venture out into the OtherWorlds to tip the scales for us all.

“Hector has led the preparation of your minds, Furkan your bodies, Anahata your hearts, Hoku your spirits, with Yara’s teachings to act as the chalice from which each of you can drink each time you need to re-member. Know that all of those teachings are One and integral as is each drop of water in the sea.”

At this, Kalea nodded toward the assembled Council of Elders. The five Acharya, their Teachers, spoke in succession from where they sat.

Hector said:
“Your mind is high.”

Furkan said:
“Your body is strong.”

Anahata said:
“Your heart is open.”

Hoku said:
“Your spirit is free.”

Yara said:
“Go forth, young Envoys: experience and learn. Each of your experiences will be your own and the lessons to be interpreted by you. Your purpose as Envoy is to receive and to transmit, and when it is time for you to return, bring Humanity Home.”

The Mystic Assembly rose. The MapMaker and the NameSayer descended from the dais and moved from Envoy to Envoy, one hand placed on the centre of each Envoy’s chest, quietly intoning their simple blessing on each.

The MapMaker:
Remember your home.

The NameSayer:
Remember your name.

The Oracles addressed the Envoys as a group from where they sat on the dais, each speaking in turn as the attention of the group moved from Oracle to Oracle.

All will be revealed for you and about you in good time through your beyondering, said Juke, the bearer of secrets.

The Great Mystery need not be understood, nor can it be; it simply must be experienced, said Nazo, one of mystery.

Look into the shadows where your gifts undoubtedly lie, into the sky that’s so obvious that the face is rarely turned up to it, keep the veil from falling over your eyes, said Calypso, she who conceals.

Pandora, she who bestows the Gifts of Wisdom, finished the Declarations:
Every loss is a breaking, every cry a revelation, every pause a balm. Every laugh is a revolution, every sigh a pivot, every tear a stitch. Every Truth—with no exception—is a gift.

“And so it is,” The Gathering answered as one.

And so it is.

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SECTION BREAK: CAMARIA

Upside Down
Camaria didn’t slow her stride as she walked through the mist of the meadow on the lip of Bardo Canyon. She’d expected to evanesce, to dissolve into the Western Realm, but her experience was nothing like that. The instant her foot passed into the Bardo, she was engulfed in an intense and suffocating squeezing as if she were attempting to pass through something much too small for her. There was no sound to speak of except nondescript and muffled tones; she could see nothing but the mist and faint colours that passed by in the periphery.

The pain came in contractions, each one pushing her not out but in. It intensified throughout her entire being, threatened to crush her entirely until she felt a sharp tearing somewhere, and suddenly she was there.

The world darkened, thickened, slowed to a carnival song. Reality flipped upside down then inverse. Sickened and disoriented, Camaria was a child on a carnival ride who had gorged on too much candy. The place was a funhouse mirror, the same muse but an utterly different reflection, a song sung at a slower, lower octave, curiously twisted and distorted, a sound that didn’t make her want to dance but furrow her brow in confusion.

The August breeze caressed her skin. The Lion’s Gate yawned its maw open. She had arrived.
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The War With No End
Camaria handed the book to Lyra and said:

“I’m finished with this. These are our readings for tonight. Uncle Hector said to read this…”

“Thank you,” Lyra said to Camaria, accepting the book, and smiled.

Lyra sat in a chair in the study and bowed her head to read.

The War With No End
No one remembers what started the war…the scribe had written.

It was a short read, for in essence, the details were unimportant. When she finished, the last words echoed in her thoughts:

It had no beginning, no end one could foresee—it existed and exists beyond the endpoints of time itself. An idea, a self-sustaining manifestation of thought, a self-fulfilling echo of what came and will come. So, they named it The War With No End.

Akashic Records entry T*
Transmitted and Transcribed by Janus (pre-holo)
The Great Library of the North
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Get in the Ring
Why do you look at me, when you hate me?
Why should I look at you, when you make me hate you too?
I sense a smell of retribution in the air.
I don't even understand why the fuck you even care.
-Guns N’ Roses

The Pit was slithering with every snake in the Northern District. They had all come to see The Viper’s son square off with his last match, and the din of the crowd was potent, the bloodthirst even more intoxicating than Kage had remembered. The place reeked of sweat and alcohol, an environment that one would think too unpleasant for the Upper Crust, but there they were—in fact, they thrived there in the underbelly, wagering excitedly on who would live and who would die. So, they wore their best suits and evening dresses, tipped their fedoras on their slick haired heads, placed bets kept by the smiling bookies who slithered through the crowd.

Kage had gone soft in some ways over the last 8 months, that was certain, but that softness could be hidden behind his cold black eyes—as long as he conjured enough of the violence he once thrived on for one last fight. These were not cage fights without rules, nor were the fighters allowed weapons of any kind—the matches were brutal and often deadly, but were stripped down to bare knuckles and the primal instinct to kill or be killed.

Though The Viper did not want Kage to lose, his reasons were not those of a loving father for his beloved son. He did not care that his son could be killed, only that Kage’s death would mean The Viper’s dishonour. If Kage lost tonight, the shame would be more painful than his son being beaten to death. Had he not taught Kage to survive, enlisted the most harsh and brutal teachers to make him unbeatable? Had Kage not come through without even one loss in his fighting history? No, Kage would not lose. He would seal his fate, and he would take his place in History. A legend, he would go out on top tonight. Then he would disappear from The Pit forever, someone else to take his place in The Ring, someone else to make the crowd feel more alive by the possibility of their champion’s bloody death.

During their meeting in the Diner, The Viper had said that there were three conditions to their new arrangement: 1. Kage had to perform his duties with The Establishment without fail; 2. He could not try to leave or they would be hunted down; and 3. Kage had to prove to his father that he hadn't gone soft and prove to the world that he was still loyal to his father in one last fight in The Pit. No more dirty work for The Organization, no more maiming or killing or intimidation. One more fight to stop the fighting. Tonight he would honour that final condition.

So, Kage crept from bed gently kissing Camaria’s cheek as he left her sleeping, pushed the black moped away from the house to where he could start it without waking her, and sped off to face more demons than his own.

When Kage entered The Pit through the changing room and made his way through the crowd to The Ring with Iago smiling smugly at his side, there was a roar of cheering as no one dared to boo The Viper’s son. Kage was formidable: chest bare and muscled, lithe form not one bit out of shape, blood-red shorts trimmed gold at the hem, his viper tattoo wrapping around his bicep, over his shoulder, and up to his jawline, cold eyes as black as his father’s Soul. He was as deadly as his old man.

His opponent was a man about the same age as Kage, Mordax, the brother of the boy Kage had beaten to death all those years ago. Though the dead boy was being honed to be a killer and every fighter who entered the ring knew the stakes, Kage had still taken his life. And there was no forgiveness for the victors, only the simultaneous emotions of reverence, jealousy, fear, and hate. And Kage felt every one of those emotions projected at him, formed into a cloud of poison above the crowd. And they chanted:

“Get in the ring! Get in the ring! Get in the ring! Get in the ring!”

The only two things a fighter needed to know about The Ring, his teacher beat (slapped? pounded?) into him, were: no fear, and no mercy. So Kage kept walking, unapologetic, jaw flexing, eyeing and glaring into the jeering, smiling, chanting, drunken faces, and slipped through the ropes to face his opponent.

Mordax, the last of his siblings to still walk this earth in physical form, carried on with the honing his brothers and sister had started but never lived to finish themselves—chiselled and sculpted, he stood at least 2 inches taller than Kage, his frame thicker, harrier, more grizzled. His face was stone, and he bore a thick scar that ran from the corner of his eyebrow to his downturned mouth which was just as angry as his fire-lit eyes.

Mordax had every intention of killing Kage that night, and according to Kage, he also had every right to. Those thoughts, those feelings, were what made Kage soft. But despite the nightmares, the regret, Kage was not ready to accept any sort of retribution that ended in his defeat or his death because now, for the first time, he had something to live for that had nothing to do with glory.

So, after they knocked gloves, took a couple of steps back from each other, and the bell rang announcing the first round, Kage came on strong and ferocious, surprising Mordax with punch after punch to his flank, his solar plexus, his jaw, the socket around his eye, from which Mordax only recovered once to deliver two blows to Kage’s face splitting both his lip and his brow with a spray of blood.

Kage knew if he let up now that Mordax would regain his composure and beat the living hell out of him, maybe snuff him out entirely, ridding the world of yet another conflict, another family feud. Yet, Kage did not want any more deaths on his hands. All he needed to do was win. He did not fight to be champion or for his father’s approval as he did in the past. This time it wasn’t rage and violence that fueled him but his deep need to protect. This time he fought for their Freedom, which, ironically, made him cause just as much damage as when he wanted his opponents dead.

So, Kage continued to pound Mordax until the larger man fell to the bloodied mat with a loud thud, unconscious. But Kage had not crossed the line. He knew how hard and where to hit to kill a man and how hard and where to hit to simply bring him down.

But that didn’t make Kage any less disgusted with himself as he watched Mordax fall hard to the mat after the last crunching blow, as he saw the man’s wife jump from her seat to pound the mat where her husband lay.

“Oooooh!” the crowd exclaimed at once.

“Mordax! Mordax!” the woman screamed, wisps of her blonde hair falling from her ponytail. But the man was obviously breathing, and her fear quickly turned to hate as she looked up, her red eyes blazing, at Kage, the man still standing. Untouchable. Unbreakable.

The Viper nodded and left, his lackeys trailing behind. Then the cheers flooded Kage’s head when the countdown ended. A knock out. Kage had lost count of how many that was now.

Iago laughed. “God damned, Kage!” his once-friend exclaimed, suddenly in the ring with him, patting him on the back, raising Kage’s hand in victory. “You’re still one brutal motherfucker!”

At home, Camaria bolted up in bed to the sounds of hissing, to the panting one might make when the body is spent, his breath close and intimate in her ear, though his physical form was nowhere near. As if his lips were close, her hair tickled her cheek with every puff of his breath. Camaria’s hand patted the empty mattress that was cold where Kage’s body usually kept it warm. She intoned as to his whereabouts, and his form bloomed in her mind, slack and face bloodied, Iago holding up his arm in victory as the crowd both cheered and jeered.

As the adrenaline wore off, Kage felt like he was going to be sick. He slipped out of the ring, bumped and pushed his way through the crowd who patted him on the back, as women smiled and batted their lashes at him, and all he wanted was to go home. To never set foot in this rotting shithole again.

“Come with me,” Iago coaxed. “You need a drink before you go home. It will relax you,” he said. And Kage knew this was true. He was much too wound up to go home just yet. Iago opened up a bottle, poured a glass for Kage and one for himself, and Kage stayed for a drink, for two, for three, listening to Iago’s accolades, his praise, his incessant chatter as Kage hung his head for a time, lost in his own thoughts, then came to his senses, Camaria’s concerned inquiries pulling him Home to them.

He didn’t bother showering, only wanting to return to Camaria, to let her deft hands wash the blood from the splits in his face, the stains from his Soul, as he sat curved in on himself on the edge of their bed. He tried to shove the dead boy far back into the recesses of his psyche, the pain of Mordax’s foiled attempt to avenge his brother’s death, but ghosts do not sleep.

But it was him or me, he reasoned.

It was him or me.
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The Path of the Envoy; Mapping the Envoy; A Way Back; First Marking
The first few pricks of the inking needle stung, and Camaria let out a small hiss as the shapes began to take form—the first ever markings on her previously pristine olive skin.

The Tattoo of the Envoy varied from envoy to envoy, each a(n) unique story to write—inked by the Tattooist and informed by the MapMaker, the NameSayer, one of the Oracles, and of course, the Envoy themself. Camaria had chosen the Oracle Pandora, and Pandora had chosen her.

Kilo watched silently from where he sat in the corner of the small room in the north wing of the Envoy Preparation House, the occasional running of his hand through his dark gold hair the only thing that gave away the discord that sounded within.

Camaria watched the Tattooist as she worked. Her squinting black eyes fixed and concentrating on her task at hand, her head bent to reveal the only tattoo she had emerging from the back collar of her loose, wide-necked shirt, up her pale spine and neck, and disappearing up into her pink hair. Had the Tattooist been bald, Camaria was certain the tattoo would not have ended until it reached her crown; had the Tattooist’s back had been bare, Camaria was also certain that the markings would run down to her tailbone.

Pain needled Camaria’s skin, one small sting at a time, and she sucked in air occasionally, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. Veil’s Edge had knowledge of far less uncomfortable marking processes, but Camaria chose to be inked in the traditional ways—just as her parents had done, just as her Uncles Alexander and Hector had done, and her parents’ best friend and Kilo’s mother Yara.

On the last few stings, her deep brown eyes flicked up to meet Kilo, whose own hazel eyes never left her face the entire time he sat and watched. Each moment that passed a letting go. Sharing the deepest bonds of friendship, having never been apart since they were babes in arms, Kilo determined to not allow their imminent separation to become a severing.

He had experienced loss in his 18 years of life, yes, but nothing came close to this.

I will be back, Kilo, Camaria sent.

I know, Kilo sent back. But much will change, and your return will not be soon.

Yes, I know this.

It would not be soon.

As the Tattooist finished up her work, Camaria and Kilo sat in silence feeling each other through the spaces between the words. The story being written in a tattoo. Camaria may have used canvas to show it, Kilo paper to tell it, but this time Camaria was the canvas, the paper being her very own skin. A branding of meaning she wanted to retain. Until the time came to burn the paper, and like the phoenix, to make herself anew.

Camaria’s mind wandered to the last day of their preparation. “You will receive your additional tattoos each time you return,” her Uncle Hector told her and the rest of the Green Envoys as they stood semi-circle on the dirt-packed ground of the Preparation Yard.

And what might those be, Camaria wondered.

Today, though, today what emerged from the Tattooist's hands, sting by sting, was a majestic lioness: quiet, knowing, no roar on her lips, a single dandelion seed on her nose, her prominent heart an open box, light pouring out by way of a shower of birds and stars.

An outpicturing of Pandora’s gifts…so far…
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Hibernation: Yara Explains Love
Yara found her son at work on his new construction. He had chosen to build it almost exactly in the middle way between Kalea and Anahata’s small cabin and Yara’s even smaller one. They were delighted when he had chosen this space which had access to the gardens all of them tended, and although private, had good access to the labyrinth of paths that led to various settlements as well as to his mother and elders nearby.

Kilo had not yet returned to receiving at the OutPost. He had reduced his hours with Mani in the Redwood Forest to daily morning practices, but the rest of his time was now spent building his new Home. Adonis was helping him erect a heavy-looking post when Yara approached.

“Good Morning, Yara!” Adonis called through grunts and a wide grin. His beautiful tanned skin was already glistening with sweat, his shirt discarded on the pile of logs.

“Good morning!” Yara answered. “Just the two of you this morning?” she asked as she immediately placed her hands on the post and helped the men push just enough to get it upright and in place.

“Yes, just the two of us,” Adonis answered and exclaimed as he stepped back, hands on his hips, inspecting their work. “That will do just fine!”

“Your Home is coming along quite nicely, My Son,” Yara offered. “Very beautiful, indeed.”

“Yes,” Kilo smiled. “We are almost ready to close it in with the external walls. Hector will be arriving later this afternoon to assist with that.”

“Mmmmm,” Yara answered, still marvelling at how far along they’d come with only their hands, some tools, and their bodies. They had advanced knowledge of how to erect large structures—how to move great amounts of earth, to lift heavy things defying the field of gravity—with Yara and Kalea at the forefront of their settlement’s discoveries and experimentation. But the things they could move with their hands, they simply moved with their hands, with a bit of help from their wits.

“Kilo, do you have a moment?” Yara asked.

“Of course,” Kilo replied.

Picking up on the cue, Adonis announced that he needed some water and took his temporary leave.

“How do you fare, My Son?” Yara asked as they settled beside each other on the logs. Adonis had gathered his shirt and was now walking away, bucket in hand, to replenish their water supply from the stream some ¼ mile away.

“Well, Mama,” Kilo considered, “I am no longer angry.”

“Has that left you cold?” Yara asked. Kilo took a moment to feel within. And instead of warm, it was indeed rather cold. He sent a chill down their thread to his mother which she received.

“Somewhat, yes,” he replied aloud.

“Yet you hurt still?”

“Yes.”

“That is helpful then.”

“Why is that, Mama?”

“Sometimes ice can numb the wound. Sometimes it will bite with frost. Sometimes it will freeze you still. Sometimes it will drive you inside to hibernate, to sleep, and to dream.”

“I feel it alternating between numbing and biting.”

“Then perhaps it is time to enter the cave.”

“What do you mean?” Kilo asked his mother.

“Sometimes we must go out to go in, and sometimes we must go in to go out.” Yara shook her head. “I know, I know, it sounds like a nonsensical riddle…hmmmm, let me try again…Kilo, remember our conversations about Love?”

“Of course,” Kilo answered, eying his mother sidelong, listening, remembering their countless conversations throughout his life at breakfast, on walks, over tea in their small den. Love was his favourite thing to explore.

“Love, Son, is the circle and the line. The circle penetrates the line, and the line is held by the circle. Together they become the ever-deepening spiral.” Kilo stayed silent, an invitation for his mother to continue.

“So, Love is not only about Unity. It is also about Separation, the sword and the chalice. We separate and come together, separate and come together, and on and on it goes. Both are part of the experience of Love, and in this re-joining we realise that we are never really separate. We cannot be because we are fractals of the same source.” Yara paused, then continued as Kilo’s silence indicated his want for more.

“When we come together, we create something new—new experience, new ideas, new works of art, new life. You plus another creates the third, your Combinessence, what you are together. Thus, one plus one is three. The Holy Trinity. You + me = us. It is simple mathematics. Do you understand, son?” Yara asked.

“I think so,” Kilo answered.

“And you must stay open to evolve,” Yara continued. “You must be open to both the pain and the ecstasy, for it is only when the knife has hollowed us out that we can be filled with joy, it is only when we are separated that we can experience the bliss of reconnection.” Another pause, another continuation.

“Kilo, I do not only speak of romantic love, it is also the love of brothers, of sisters, of friends, of parents, of elders, the love between all parts of our Selves. Love is this force that replicates the cells, winds in strands of DNA, pushes the baby from the birth canal. Life itself is Love in action. And as Kalea would say, this is the Universal Love Story.” Yara paused for a few minutes to let her son contemplate and to respond.

“So, Love wounds, and creates, and heals at the same time,” Kilo concluded.

“Yes, something like that,” Yara smiled, and Kilo smiled back at his mother.

“You and Camaria, your bond is like that? Pain and ecstasy?”

“Yes, very much so,” Kilo answered, trying not to wince at the cold touch of loss he still felt at the mention of her name, from her absence.

“And so the separation you feel has wounded you,” Yara inquired as a statement.

“Yes. But I do not wish to wallow in it.”

“There is Dignity in your need, son, your Sacred Longing. Be your patient self, you have done well to release the anger, but do not deny yourself. Do not close yourself up, but allow the heartbreak to open you up, for that is what the breaking does. Allow the wound to be the portal. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“Go see your uncle and aunt, your cousins, your father in the North, until you feel this as a Knowing.”

Kilo looked at the structure, the Home he was constructing, and said: “I will build until I no longer feel inspired to do so. Then I will follow the breadcrumbs to the North, if that is where they lead me.” Yara smiled, grabbing her son with one arm around the shoulders pulling him close.

“If the breadcrumbs lead you there, indeed. Get it to where you want it for now, Kilo. It will be here when you get back, your Home, I mean; we will be here and with you wherever you may go.”
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SECTION BREAK
THE PAST (35 YEARS AGO)
Leaving the Garden (A Lifetime Ago)
What seems now to have been a lifetime ago, Camaria left the small house by the back door and entered the warm night air. She walked into the garden barefoot in her long, white night shift having been ushered outside by thoughts that would not let her sleep.
Veil’s Edge was a garden. Yes, a garden in the natural, physical sense of plants, stalks, trees, shrubs, overgrown vegetable patches, and rambling groves of fruit trees—but this is not what is meant here—well, at least not all of what is meant.
Veil’s Edge was a place where fertile soil incubated and nourished the seeds that were planted or planted themselves, where seedlings sprouted, where twisting roots burrowed deep and took hold for the mighty trees to branch out, to hold steady for the canopy to unfurl into the sky where the sun fed its leaves, where the flowers bloomed, then bore fruit, which dropped the new seeds for the next generation, the next revolution to come and become.
Each seed held the very promise of the inevitable and eternal cycle of new life within, and Camaria held one such seed in the palm of her hand as she sat on the large boulder in the centre of the space deep in contemplation.
Veils Edge was both the foliage and the labyrinthine paths that wound between what grew there, it was the rabbits who ate the leaves and the moles that nibbled at the roots. It was the humans who walked the paths, who gently picked and tended, who climbed and hiked and hid within the branches—the humans who wondered at the pink blossoms of the cherries every spring, ate the dripping, red fruit in the summer, caught the leaves as they turned orange and gold, and sat beneath the boughs in the winter snow—both human and tree sleeping, conserving the energy they would expend come spring.
There were storms, of course, and drought, but rain always fell when needed—the garden held everything one could ever want, both the sustenance and the answers to why this life, why life at all. But...
Camaria was in such a garden, the garden closest to the home she shared with her parents Kalea and Anahata, StoryKeeper and HeartMender of their community respectively, when she felt the first pull toward a new purpose—a purpose outside of this magical place that had nourished her from the moment she was born there, now a budding flower of 18.
Camaria was confused by this desire, this tug, this cracking kernel of curiosity because who would want to leave such a wondrous place as Veil’s Edge? She could serve a great purpose here receiving those who found The Way from the Western Realm, to mend and tend as she had been doing all her life, alongside Kilo, shadowing her parents, her uncles, her aunts, and Yara.
She had heard of many far-off places from travellers, from Envoys, from The New Arrivals from the Western Realm, from her own parents. Their accounts were sometimes fantastical, magical, unsettling, curious, and always, always intriguing. But she could never really understand them. The pain the Westerners expressed when they arrived made her earnest heart ache to help them, and to help them really would be to truly know.
She had her visions, and the art that came from her skilled hands was immensely moving and healing for the observer, the people depicted, and she, herself. The scenes she channelled through her sketches and paintings came to her without effort as she was a natural Seer, but her creations were still simply a very good imitation, a replica, not quite singing their songs. They were muffled, the colours muted somehow. And they were not her experiences. The flower painted would reflect the light just right, could even mesmerise anyone who looked upon it, immerse them in the display, but it was never the flower, itself.
Yes, she was a Seer, a DreamScape Artist, but she also felt the calling of the Envoy, the call to see the OtherWorlds. Tonight, she decided she would answer.
This garden had no walls; it was, in fact, wild and limitless, with its secrets quietly awaiting discovery as the blossom within the bud. It was not a place for protection but for possibility. And the Western Realm was the lidded box. And who would want to go inside when they were already free? Yet Camaria wanted to know more about what she already observed, and so she peered through the keyhole at what or who was locked inside.
Most Envoys felt the calling around this age, so Camaria was no different, aside from the fact that she didn’t expect to be called, and not to the Western Realm in any case. Her parents were well-travelled Envoys themselves, but of the Eastern Realm, even as far as the Deep East. They had visited and extracted other Envoys from the Western Realm Inside The Veil, but had never lived there, both intending to remain pure of heart and clear of purpose in order to receive and steward from a vibration of resonance and harmony. So, they stayed in the Upper Octave, tuned and turned the dials, transmitting, reharmonizing, calling others to join them there where they would be received.
Kalea and Anahata’s was an integral purpose, perhaps the most integral for the sake of Humanity’s Great Awakening, for the next Turning of the Dharma, but it was, to Camaria’s surprise, not her own. She knew that in entering the Western Realm, she would to some degree forget herself. But she trusted that her family in Veil’s Edge would hold space for her, and when she came back, they would assist in her re-membering.
The thought sent a shock of emotion through her that she couldn’t quite define or label—perhaps this is what the Westerners called Fear, what Kalea might call Intrigue, what Anahata might call Expansion. Regardless, she thought, all would lead to Revelation.
So, Camaria decided right there, as she sat barefoot on the rock with her toes in the dirt, that she would train as an Envoy; she would leave the womb of this Matrix to step those very toes into the Matrix Inside the Veil. It would not be The Mother she had always known, and for once, she would not be the wanted child of the land she would walk, each path leading to The Mother’s soft and waiting lap. She would be the foreign Envoy injecting herself into another world, asking to be received without knowing if she would, come to smear new colours onto her neat and tidy palette.
And with that thought she rose from the rock and carefully planted the seed.
What would the Western Realm rend from her; what colours would these be, she wondered, as she padded back toward the softly sleeping house.
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