Felling (Part One)

The oak looms before him at the grove’s edge, the most massive of its number. The axe head is bright and capable, the handle of hickory accustomed to shocks. He hefts it, swings, and bites into bark that is thicker than many of the saplings around him. A second strike lands, and a wedge the size of his hand flies free.

The clouds obscure their numbers, grow flat. The day is gray. When his axe parts the cold air it makes almost no sound, but the chunk of impact carries across the hills, sharp and dull at once. He looks at the heavy limbs bending above him, still clutching late leaves of brown, and acorns in fuzzy cups that will never see germination. He bears no grudge against this tree. And still, it must come down.

The Lay Of Sir Launfal

[NOTE: This lay was written by Marie de France. I claim no part in its creation, I merely repeat it in the spirit of proliferating a beautiful story.]


I will tell you the story of another Lay. It relates the adventures of a rich and mighty baron, and the Breton calls it, the Lay of Sir Launfal.

King Arthur—that fearless knight and courteous lord—removed to Wales, and lodged at Caerleon-on-Usk, since the Picts and Scots did much mischief in the land. For it was the wont of the wild people of the north to enter in the realm of Logres, and burn and damage at their will. At the time of Pentecost, the King cried a great feast. Thereat he gave many rich gifts to his counts and barons, and to the Knights of the Round Table. Never were such worship and bounty shown before at any feast, for Arthur bestowed honours and lands on all his servants—save only on one. This lord, who was forgotten and misliked of the King, was named Launfal. He was beloved by many of the Court, because of his beauty and prowess, for he was a worthy knight, open of heart and heavy of hand. These lords, to whom their comrade was dear, felt little joy to see so stout a knight misprized. Sir Launfal was son to a King of high descent, though his heritage was in a distant land. He was of the King's household, but since Arthur gave him naught, and he was of too proud a mind to pray for his due, he had spent all that he had. Right heavy was Sir Launfal, when he considered these things, for he knew himself taken in the toils. Gentles, marvel not overmuch hereat. Ever must the pilgrim go heavily in a strange land, where there is none to counsel and direct him in the path.

Now, on a day, Sir Launfal got him on his horse, that he might take his pleasure for a little. He came forth from the city, alone, attended by neither servant nor squire. He went his way through a green mead, till he stood by a river of clear running water. Sir Launfal would have crossed this stream, without thought of pass or ford, but he might not do so, for reason that his horse was all fearful and trembling. Seeing that he was hindered in this fashion, Launfal unbitted his steed, and let him pasture in that fair meadow, where they had come. Then he folded his cloak to serve him as a pillow, and lay upon the ground. Launfal lay in great misease, because of his heavy thoughts, and the discomfort of his bed. He turned from side to side, and might not sleep. Now as the knight looked towards the river he saw two damsels coming towards him; fairer maidens Launfal had never seen. These two maidens were richly dressed in kirtles closely laced and shapen to their persons and wore mantles of a goodly purple hue. Sweet and dainty were the damsels, alike in raiment and in face. The elder of these ladies carried in her hands a basin of pure gold, cunningly wrought by some crafty smith—very fair and precious was the cup; and the younger bore a towel of soft white linen. These maidens turned neither to the right hand nor to the left, but went directly to the place where Launfal lay. When Launfal saw that their business was with him, he stood upon his feet, like a discreet and courteous gentleman. After they had greeted the knight, one of the maidens delivered the message with which she was charged.

"Sir Launfal, my demoiselle, as gracious as she is fair, prays that you will follow us, her messengers, as she has a certain word to speak with you. We will lead you swiftly to her pavilion, for our lady is very near at hand. If you but lift your eyes you may see where her tent is spread."

Right glad was the knight to do the bidding of the maidens. He gave no heed to his horse, but left him at his provand in the meadow. All his desire was to go with the damsels, to that pavilion of silk and divers colours, pitched in so fair a place. Certainly neither Semiramis in the days of her most wanton power, nor Octavian, the Emperor of all the West, had so gracious a covering from sun and rain. Above the tent was set an eagle of gold, so rich and precious, that none might count the cost. The cords and fringes thereof were of silken thread, and the lances which bore aloft the pavilion were of refined gold. No King on earth might have so sweet a shelter, not though he gave in fee the value of his realm. Within this pavilion Launfal came upon the Maiden. Whiter she was than any altar lily, and more sweetly flushed than the new born rose in time of summer heat. She lay upon a bed with napery and coverlet of richer worth than could be furnished by a castle's spoil. Very fresh and slender showed the lady in her vesture of spotless linen. About her person she had drawn a mantle of ermine, edged with purple dye from the vats of Alexandria. By reason of the heat her raiment was unfastened for a little, and her throat and the rondure of her bosom showed whiter and more untouched than hawthorn in May. The knight came before the bed, and stood gazing on so sweet a sight. The Maiden beckoned him to draw near, and when he had seated himself at the foot of her couch, spoke her mind.

"Launfal," she said, "fair friend, it is for you that I have come from my own far land. I bring you my love. If you are prudent and discreet, as you are goodly to the view, there is no emperor nor count, nor king, whose day shall be so filled with riches and with mirth as yours."

When Launfal heard these words he rejoiced greatly, for his heart was litten by another's torch.

"Fair lady," he answered, "since it pleases you to be so gracious, and to dower so graceless a knight with your love, there is naught that you may bid me do—right or wrong, evil or good—that I will not do to the utmost of my power. I will observe your commandment, and serve in your quarrels. For you I renounce my father and my father's house. This only I pray, that I may dwell with you in your lodging, and that you will never send me from your side."

When the Maiden heard the words of him whom so fondly she desired to love, she was altogether moved, and granted him forthwith her heart and her tenderness. To her bounty she added another gift besides. Never might Launfal be desirous of aught, but he would have according to his wish. He might waste and spend at will and pleasure, but in his purse ever there was to spare. No more was Launfal sad. Right merry was the pilgrim, since one had set him on the way, with such a gift, that the more pennies he bestowed, the more silver and gold were in his pouch.

But the Maiden had yet a word to say.

"Friend," she said, "hearken to my counsel. I lay this charge upon you, and pray you urgently, that you tell not to any man the secret of our love. If you show this matter, you will lose your friend, for ever and a day. Never again may you see my face. Never again will you have seisin of that body, which is now so tender in your eyes."

Launfal plighted faith, that right strictly he would observe this commandment. So the Maiden granted him her kiss and her embrace, and very sweetly in that fair lodging passed the day till evensong was come.

Right loath was Launfal to depart from the pavilion at the vesper hour, and gladly would he have stayed, had he been able, and his lady wished.

"Fair friend," said she, "rise up, for no longer may you tarry. The hour is come that we must part. But one thing I have to say before you go. When you would speak with me I shall hasten to come before your wish. Well I deem that you will only call your friend where she may be found without reproach or shame of men. You may see me at your pleasure; my voice shall speak softly in your ear at will; but I must never be known of your comrades, nor must they ever learn my speech."

Right joyous was Launfal to hear this thing. He sealed the covenant with a kiss, and stood upon his feet. Then there entered the two maidens who had led him to the pavilion, bringing with them rich raiment, fitting for a knight's apparel. When Launfal had clothed himself therewith, there seemed no goodlier varlet under heaven, for certainly he was fair and true. After these maidens had refreshed him with clear water, and dried his hands upon the napkin, Launfal went to meat. His friend sat at table with him, and small will had he to refuse her courtesy. Very serviceably the damsels bore the meats, and Launfal and the Maiden ate and drank with mirth and content. But one dish was more to the knight's relish than any other. Sweeter than the dainties within his mouth, was the lady's kiss upon his lips.

When supper was ended, Launfal rose from table, for his horse stood waiting without the pavilion. The destrier was newly saddled and bridled, and showed proudly in his rich gay trappings. So Launfal kissed, and bade farewell, and went his way. He rode back towards the city at a slow pace. Often he checked his steed, and looked behind him, for he was filled with amazement, and all bemused concerning this adventure. In his heart he doubted that it was but a dream. He was altogether astonished, and knew not what to do. He feared that pavilion and Maiden alike were from the realm of faery.

Launfal returned to his lodging, and was greeted by servitors, clad no longer in ragged raiment. He fared richly, lay softly, and spent largely, but never knew how his purse was filled. There was no lord who had need of a lodging in the town, but Launfal brought him to his hall, for refreshment and delight. Launfal bestowed rich gifts. Launfal redeemed the poor captive. Launfal clothed in scarlet the minstrel. Launfal gave honour where honour was due. Stranger and friend alike he comforted at need. So, whether by night or by day, Launfal lived greatly at his ease. His lady, she came at will and pleasure, and, for the rest, all was added unto him.

Now it chanced, the same year, about the feast of St. John, a company of knights came, for their solace, to an orchard, beneath that tower where dwelt the Queen. Together with these lords went Gawain and his cousin, Yvain the fair. Then said Gawain, that goodly knight, beloved and dear to all,

"Lords, we do wrong to disport ourselves in this pleasaunce without our comrade Launfal. It is not well to slight a prince as brave as he is courteous, and of a lineage prouder than our own."

Then certain of the lords returned to the city, and finding Launfal within his hostel, entreated him to take his pastime with them in that fair meadow. The Queen looked out from a window in her tower, she and three ladies of her fellowship. They saw the lords at their pleasure, and Launfal also, whom well they knew. So the Queen chose of her Court thirty damsels—the sweetest of face and most dainty of fashion—and commanded that they should descend with her to take their delight in the garden. When the knights beheld this gay company of ladies come down the steps of the perron, they rejoiced beyond measure. They hastened before to lead them by the hand, and said such words in their ear as were seemly and pleasant to be spoken. Amongst these merry and courteous lords hasted not Sir Launfal. He drew apart from the throng, for with him time went heavily, till he might have clasp and greeting of his friend. The ladies of the Queen's fellowship seemed but kitchen wenches to his sight, in comparison with the loveliness of the maiden. When the Queen marked Launfal go aside, she went his way, and seating herself upon the herb, called the knight before her. Then she opened out her heart.

"Launfal, I have honoured you for long as a worthy knight, and have praised and cherished you very dearly. You may receive a queen's whole love, if such be your care. Be content: he to whom my heart is given, has small reason to complain him of the alms."

"Lady," answered the knight, "grant me leave to go, for this grace is not for me. I am the King's man, and dare not break my troth. Not for the highest lady in the world, not even for her love, will I set this reproach upon my lord."

When the Queen heard this, she was full of wrath, and spoke many hot and bitter words.

"Launfal," she cried, "well I know that you think little of woman and her love. There are sins more black that a man may have upon his soul. Traitor you are, and false. Right evil counsel gave they to my lord, who prayed him to suffer you about his person. You remain only for his harm and loss."

Launfal was very dolent to hear this thing. He was not slow to take up the Queen's glove, and in his haste spake words that he repented long, and with tears.

"Lady," said he, "I am not of that guild of which you speak. Neither am I a despiser of woman, since I love, and am loved, of one who would bear the prize from all the ladies in the land. Dame, know now and be persuaded, that she, whom I serve, is so rich in state, that the very meanest of her maidens, excels you, Lady Queen, as much in clerkly skill and goodness, as in sweetness of body and face, and in every virtue."

The Queen rose straightway to her feet, and fled to her chamber, weeping. Right wrathful and heavy was she, because of the words that had besmirched her. She lay sick upon her bed, from which, she said, she would never rise, till the King had done her justice, and righted this bitter wrong. Now the King that day had taken his pleasure within the woods. He returned from the chase towards evening, and sought the chamber of the Queen. When the lady saw him, she sprang from her bed, and kneeling at his feet, pleaded for grace and pity. Launfal—she said—had shamed her, since he required her love. When she had put him by, very foully had he reviled her, boasting that his love was already set on a lady, so proud and noble, that her meanest wench went more richly, and smiled more sweetly, than the Queen. Thereat the King waxed marvellously wrathful, and swore a great oath that he would set Launfal within a fire, or hang him from a tree, if he could not deny this thing, before his peers.

Arthur came forth from the Queen's chamber, and called to him three of his lords. These he sent to seek the knight who so evilly had entreated the Queen. Launfal, for his part, had returned to his lodging, in a sad and sorrowful case. He saw very clearly that he had lost his friend, since he had declared their love to men. Launfal sat within his chamber, sick and heavy of thought. Often he called upon his friend, but the lady would not hear his voice. He bewailed his evil lot, with tears; for grief he came nigh to swoon; a hundred times he implored the Maiden that she would deign to speak with her knight. Then, since the lady yet refrained from speech, Launfal cursed his hot and unruly tongue. Very near he came to ending all this trouble with his knife. Naught he found to do but to wring his hands, and call upon the Maiden, begging her to forgive his trespass, and to talk with him again, as friend to friend.

But little peace is there for him who is harassed by a King. There came presently to Launfal's hostel those three barons from the Court. These bade the knight forthwith to go with them to Arthur's presence, to acquit him of this wrong against the Queen. Launfal went forth, to his own deep sorrow. Had any man slain him on the road, he would have counted him his friend. He stood before the King, downcast and speechless, being dumb by reason of that great grief, of which he showed the picture and image.

Arthur looked upon his captive very evilly.

"Vassal," said he, harshly, "you have done me a bitter wrong. It was a foul deed to seek to shame me in this ugly fashion, and to smirch the honour of the Queen. Is it folly or lightness which leads you to boast of that lady, the least of whose maidens is fairer, and goes more richly, than the Queen?"

Launfal protested that never had he set such shame upon his lord. Word by word he told the tale of how he denied the Queen, within the orchard. But concerning that which he had spoken of the lady, he owned the truth, and his folly. The love of which he bragged was now lost to him, by his own exceeding fault. He cared little for his life, and was content to obey the judgment of the Court.

Right wrathful was the King at Launfal's words. He conjured his barons to give him such wise counsel herein, that wrong might be done to none. The lords did the King's bidding, whether good came of the matter, or evil. They gathered themselves together, and appointed a certain day that Launfal should abide the judgment of his peers. For his part Launfal must give pledge and surety to his lord, that he would come before this judgment in his own body. If he might not give such surety then he should be held captive till the appointed day. When the lords of the King's household returned to tell him of their counsel, Arthur demanded that Launfal should put such pledge in his hand, as they had said. Launfal was altogether mazed and bewildered at this judgment, for he had neither friend nor kindred in the land. He would have been set in prison, but Gawain came first to offer himself as his surety, and with him, all the knights of his fellowship. These gave into the King's hand as pledge, the fiefs and lands that they held of his Crown. The King having taken pledges from the sureties, Launfal returned to his lodging, and with him certain knights of his company. They blamed him greatly because of his foolish love, and chastened him grievously by reason of the sorrow he made before men. Every day they came to his chamber, to know of his meat and drink, for much they feared that presently he would become mad.

The lords of the household came together on the day appointed for this judgment. The King was on his chair, with the Queen sitting at his side. The sureties brought Launfal within the hall, and rendered him into the hands of his peers. Right sorrowful were they because of his plight. A great company of his fellowship did all that they were able to acquit him of this charge. When all was set out, the King demanded the judgment of the Court, according to the accusation and the answer. The barons went forth in much trouble and thought to consider this matter. Many amongst them grieved for the peril of a good knight in a strange land; others held that it were well for Launfal to suffer, because of the wish and malice of their lord. Whilst they were thus perplexed, the Duke of Cornwall rose in the council, and said,

"Lords, the King pursues Launfal as a traitor, and would slay him with the sword, by reason that he bragged of the beauty of his maiden, and roused the jealousy of the Queen. By the faith that I owe this company, none complains of Launfal, save only the King. For our part we would know the truth of this business, and do justice between the King and his man. We would also show proper reverence to our own liege lord. Now, if it be according to Arthur's will, let us take oath of Launfal, that he seek this lady, who has put such strife between him and the Queen. If her beauty be such as he has told us, the Queen will have no cause for wrath. She must pardon Launfal for his rudeness, since it will be plain that he did not speak out of a malicious heart. Should Launfal fail his word, and not return with the lady, or should her fairness fall beneath his boast, then let him be cast off from our fellowship, and be sent forth from the service of the King."

This counsel seemed good to the lords of the household. They sent certain of his friends to Launfal, to acquaint him with their judgment, bidding him to pray his damsel to the Court, that he might be acquitted of this blame. The knight made answer that in no wise could he do this thing. So the sureties returned before the judges, saying that Launfal hoped neither for refuge nor for succour from the lady, and Arthur urged them to a speedy ending, because of the prompting of the Queen.

The judges were about to give sentence upon Launfal, when they saw two maidens come riding towards the palace, upon two white ambling palfreys. Very sweet and dainty were these maidens, and richly clothed in garments of crimson sendal, closely girt and fashioned to their bodies. All men, old and young, looked willingly upon them, for fair they were to see. Gawain, and three knights of his company, went straight to Launfal, and showed him these maidens, praying him to say which of them was his friend. But he answered never a word. The maidens dismounted from their palfreys, and coming before the dais where the King was seated, spake him fairly, as they were fair.

"Sire, prepare now a chamber, hung with silken cloths, where it is seemly for my lady to dwell; for she would lodge with you awhile."

This gift the King granted gladly. He called to him two knights of his household, and bade them bestow the maidens in such chambers as were fitting to their degree. The maidens being gone, the King required of his barons to proceed with their judgment, saying that he had sore displeasure at the slowness of the cause.

"Sire," replied the barons, "we rose from Council, because of the damsels who entered in the hall. We will at once resume the sitting, and give our judgment without more delay."

The barons again were gathered together, in much thought and trouble, to consider this matter. There was great strife and dissension amongst them, for they knew not what to do. In the midst of all this noise and tumult, there came two other damsels riding to the hall on two Spanish mules. Very richly arrayed were these damsels in raiment of fine needlework, and their kirtles were covered by fresh fair mantles, embroidered with gold. Great joy had Launfal's comrades when they marked these ladies. They said between themselves that doubtless they came for the succour of the good knight. Gawain, and certain of his company, made haste to Launfal, and said, "Sir, be not cast down. Two ladies are near at hand, right dainty of dress, and gracious of person. Tell us truly, for the love of God, is one of these your friend?"

But Launfal answered very simply that never before had he seen these damsels with his eyes, nor known and loved them in his heart.

The maidens dismounted from their mules, and stood before Arthur, in the sight of all. Greatly were they praised of many, because of their beauty, and of the colour of their face and hair. Some there were who deemed already that the Queen was overborne.

The elder of the damsels carried herself modestly and well, and sweetly told over the message wherewith she was charged.

"Sire, make ready for us chambers, where we may abide with our lady, for even now she comes to speak with thee."

The King commanded that the ladies should be led to their companions, and bestowed in the same honourable fashion as they. Then he bade the lords of his household to consider their judgment, since he would endure no further respite. The Court already had given too much time to the business, and the Queen was growing wrathful, because of the blame that was hers. Now the judges were about to proclaim their sentence, when, amidst the tumult of the town, there came riding to the palace the flower of all the ladies of the world. She came mounted upon a palfrey, white as snow, which carried her softly, as though she loved her burthen. Beneath the sky was no goodlier steed, nor one more gentle to the hand. The harness of the palfrey was so rich, that no king on earth might hope to buy trappings so precious, unless he sold or set his realm in pledge. The Maiden herself showed such as I will tell you. Passing slim was the lady, sweet of bodice and slender of girdle. Her throat was whiter than snow on branch, and her eyes were like flowers in the pallor of her face. She had a witching mouth, a dainty nose, and an open brow. Her eyebrows were brown, and her golden hair parted in two soft waves upon her head. She was clad in a shift of spotless linen, and above her snowy kirtle was set a mantle of royal purple, clasped upon her breast. She carried a hooded falcon upon her glove, and a greyhound followed closely after. As the Maiden rode at a slow pace through the streets of the city, there was none, neither great nor small, youth nor sergeant, but ran forth from his house, that he might content his heart with so great beauty. Every man that saw her with his eyes, marvelled at a fairness beyond that of any earthly woman. Little he cared for any mortal maiden, after he had seen this sight. The friends of Sir Launfal hastened to the knight, to tell him of his lady's succour, if so it were according to God's will.

"Sir comrade, truly is not this your friend? This lady is neither black nor golden, mean nor tall. She is only the most lovely thing in all the world."

When Launfal heard this, he sighed, for by their words he knew again his friend. He raised his head, and as the blood rushed to his face, speech flowed from his lips.

"By my faith," cried he, "yes, she is indeed my friend. It is a small matter now whether men slay me, or set me free; for I am made whole of my hurt just by looking on her face."

The Maiden entered in the palace—where none so fair had come before—and stood before the King, in the presence of his household. She loosed the clasp of her mantle, so that men might the more easily perceive the grace of her person. The courteous King advanced to meet her, and all the Court got them on their feet, and pained themselves in her service. When the lords had gazed upon her for a space, and praised the sum of her beauty, the lady spake to Arthur in this fashion, for she was anxious to begone.

"Sire, I have loved one of thy vassals,—the knight who stands in bonds, Sir Launfal. He was always misprized in thy Court, and his every action turned to blame. What he said, that thou knowest; for over hasty was his tongue before the Queen. But he never craved her in love, however loud his boasting. I cannot choose that he should come to hurt or harm by me. In the hope of freeing Launfal from his bonds, I have obeyed thy summons. Let now thy barons look boldly upon my face, and deal justly in this quarrel between the Queen and me."

The King commanded that this should be done, and looking upon her eyes, not one of the judges but was persuaded that her favour exceeded that of the Queen.

Since then Launfal had not spoken in malice against his lady, the lords of the household gave him again his sword. When the trial had come thus to an end the Maiden took her leave of the King, and made her ready to depart. Gladly would Arthur have had her lodge with him for a little, and many a lord would have rejoiced in her service, but she might not tarry. Now without the hall stood a great stone of dull marble, where it was the wont of lords, departing from the Court, to climb into the saddle, and Launfal by the stone. The Maiden came forth from the doors of the palace, and mounting on the stone, seated herself on the palfrey, behind her friend. Then they rode across the plain together, and were no more seen.

The Bretons tell that the knight was ravished by his lady to an island, very dim and very fair, known as Avalon. But none has had speech with Launfal and his faery love since then, and for my part I can tell you no more of the matter.

12/21/12

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http://www.zakros.com/kluver/artengineer.html
http://www.c3.hu/collection/form/
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http://jess3.com/
http://www.aaronkoblin.com/work.html ."

Von

The panther, when unsummoned, dwells within a cave on the snowy peak of the great mountain Io, which is the mountain of the dream. He is the lieutenant, messenger, and agent of the goddess, Darja, who is also called the angel of solace.

The panther, too, is an angel of solace, one who lives by the Healer's Oath, but not absolutely. Possessed of a great cat's teeth and claws, he has the potential to act as a guardian over chosen wards of the goddess.

Von--for that is his name--is the sole example of the species Panthera apotheosus and as such exhibits these features: he is purely black, not simply a melanistic mutation of a typical jaguar or leopard. No spots are visible in his coat, nor were they ever there. His coat is seamless ebony.

He is much larger than any earthly panther, with a mass and stature equivalent to the largest of African lions, though obviously without a mane.

And lastly, his eyes are a very pale gray.

Von is often referred to as "the panther in the snow", due to the white expanses of his homeland, and his tendency to appear in winter. The winter is his time of greatest influence, the season that his spirit springs from, though he can travel into any month.

Afterward

I will wait just inside the door to the underworld for you. That gray-black stone tile thick with dust, just before the sudden descent (a rollercoaster angle) is where I will crouch and breathe on my hands for warmth. I will wait for you, so that we will go on down together, to introduce each other as a good man and a good woman among the milling souls of the recently dead. I think they will greet us as people always do when thrust together into a situation strange, worrisome, but calm enough and free enough from signs of peril that panic does not seem a natural response--I think they will welcome us, and ask us what we think, and if we have any news from the world above. And they will already know the answer before it leaves our lips: no, sorry, it doesn't look like the government's going to send relief anytime soon. The living world, like a howling blizzard, will cease to seem like a thing to return to, and we'll all begin exploring the uncharted lanes of what comes next. We will move down the subterranean mountain, carrying the coals of a future hearth to where existence opens, once more, the plains of the waiting flowers.

Icon of Mayda

The sculpture is lost to history.
All we have is a painting of the shadow of the sculpture
against a featureless white wall at an indeterminate
time of day. The wall itself fell many hundreds of
years ago and I'm told the sun is different now, too.
Still, it existed.
We definitely can see that something once was.

A God Of Sorts

There is another level of existence between free will and fate. Even a god has a god of sorts. And it's the ‘gods of sorts’ that drive the story. They have names like Muse and Inspiration, they have faces that we call gut-feeling and half-conscious instinct. We live and we act and we choose, yes, but the choices do not go unrecorded, and on the scale of divinity there is no solid state of Time. What is written is what happened; what happened was not fated; yet it could not happen until it was written. So what drove the writing? Was it our choices reaching back through Time to move the pen, or was it the gut-feeling of a god composing his words as he witnessed what we chose? The story wanted telling because it was already there, but nobody knew the plot—not even the god who wove it. He was a reporter on a train of thought, kicking coal into the engine with a sleeping foot. We… are the fierce clay models of a blind potter who directs his hands by the voices of ghosts, and even the ghosts are haunted. There is no ultimate Authority here; the tale is endless in each direction, or else it is massively circular. For I have lived for five hundred years, and never known more than a fleeting deja vu. The river called Narrative sweeps us all along in its flow, and its waters fork endlessly as it rolls toward a beautiful horizon where the sun trembles forever halved.

Mythos: A Warning To Travelers

Gaze not into the Jester’s eyes

For in them lurks a bad surprise:

One eye glints red, the other green

And with each blink they trade the gleam.

The Booth

I came to inside the booth; this tiny, dim booth with a chair and a table and a pair of headphones jacked into the wall. A torn-off scrap of ruled notebook paper, folded in half once, perched on the table like a place setting. It said "Put the headphones on.”

I picked up the paper—the handwriting was my own—and crumpled it up with five fingers as I slowly turned a full circle. No door. A flat, yellow, circular light fixture eight inches above my head glowed wanly. And beyond the table a plexiglass window, tinted and only darkness beyond. I saw my vague reflection in it; I looked like myself.

No door. How does one get into a room with no door and a sealed window?

Rather than panic, I put the headphones on my head—they were big, made of aged, beige plastic. A dingy white spiral cord ran away from their bulbous cups. The ear pads were a little chewed with time and wear. The hum of an open line met me, not static precisely, just a yawning sonic chasm. And then...

A heartbeat. Slow, steady, insistent, joined suddenly by another, higher pitched, more rapid, very strong. This went on for a long time, and it lulled me into a stupor. I hung slackly in the chair, listening to the dueling thump-thumps. Suddenly, there was a low tone, the sort that tells you to buckle your seatbelt before landing. Maybe it was a hearing test—maybe I should have been raising my right hand. On the heels of that sound came a soft, calm woman's voice. "9.3 months" it stated simply.

Then I convulsed and flopped out of the chair in shock as an infant's first shrieking wail filled my ears. The headphones fell off but I still heard it bawling, a hitching tinny scream several feet away. After a few minutes it subsided and sounds too quiet to discern from a distance muttered from the speakers. I tentatively placed the phones on my head once more.

It was my mother’s voice, but clearer and sharper than I had ever heard it before. She sounded young and cautiously triumphant—she was telling someone how beautiful he was.

The calm woman returned. “2.1 years” she said. The inflection might have been used to say “fourth floor.”

The sounds now were strange. Clacking, rattling noises. Hollow plastic thuds. Small pieces of wood thunking into each other. Something like broken glass that caught my attention immediately and slammed a memory association into place: Legos, the fat ones made for children still young enough to see with their mouths. More of these noises followed, including the various burblings of a small child. Then abruptly there came a louder crash, and the child began screaming. I was somewhat ready for it that time, so although I jerked in my seat I did not fall down again. Pounding footsteps grew near and I heard my father’s voice sag from angry to sympathetic in the course of a few syllables. I touched the scar on my chin.

That is when I took the headphones off and set them down on the table; slowly pushed myself away until the back of the chair met the back of the booth, eliciting an involuntary yelp from me. My body shook. No one could possess these sounds, for they had only been recorded in a single place, by a singular listener. They were only in my head. Hearing them replicated and played back this way created an exhilarating harmony the likes of which I thought should be impossible. It scared me. And yet… I went back to them.

The calm woman returned several times, bringing me through my childhood, my pre-adolescence. I heard myself terrified the first time I watched “Jaws.” I heard the rapid breaths that accompanied my first foray into masturbation. I heard old cartoons, dead relatives of whom I had no recollection until that moment; school lessons; school buses; and snippets of popular radio caught in passing. I heard myself talking to myself, in private, telling myself truths and mistruths and the inexperienced rationalizations only children can conjure for themselves. All of it began to hurt, but I kept listening.

“16.9 years” the calm woman said eventually, and I heard Opal’s long lost voice in my ear. She told me it was alright, and I heard her sigh. Our first time together; my suppressed groan as I turned away from her, pulled out because the heat was too intense and we were innocently unprotected. The music that filled the next few hours was an elixir of the most potent recollections—whole albums played through my mind not once or twice but a dozen times each, every time a different situation. Sometimes the sound of a car engine rumbled under the melody, sometimes just the wind buffeting curtains in an open window. Opal and I were singing together through many of them. I cried.

Time seemed to have lost meaning. I neither ate nor slept, nor felt any bodily urges except the intense curiosity and desire to keep listening. The gaps between episodes grew smaller and smaller until the headphones were playing a continuous stream of auditory memories, lapsing only during those times when I must have been asleep. I heard relationships begun and ended, heard myself in yelling contests, heard myself laughing in a room full of family. I drifted forward through my late teens, my early twenties—my marriage, all of its trials and passions, its stupid arguments and agonizing reconciliations—until finally the calm woman said “30.00183 years.”

Then I heard the train’s horn blare, the horrible roar of the engine, and the sound of my tires screeching across rain-soaked asphalt. The sound of collision was mercifully brief, and the crunch at the end I did not recognize immediately: it was my skull caving in. I stared at my white-knuckled fists on the table, unmarked and unbroken. I bent my hearing down into a new aural abyss that was now filling up the headphones’ soundscape. Thoughts coalesced for me—I was dead, and all that remained was dead tape. But then, before my stunned hands could remove the whispering static, a fresh set of voices began to fill the space.

It was not hard to grasp; I was listening to my funeral. A priest was speaking the name of my brother. And I paused with my hands resting on the phones, the mystic monkey’s hear-no-evil pose. And I asked myself, as my brother cleared his throat at the pulpit: Was this mine to hear? Should I listen?

Would you?

On The Edge Of Lake Superlative

Sally’s hair had turned from gold to red overnight. Zeke sat up blearily in the little dinghy and ran a hand through his mussed, black hair. At first he took the red for an artifact of the dawning sun, but as Sally’s placid, sleeping smile came into his waking focus, he realized her long hair was actually the hue of a Scottish lass’s, fiery and pure.

And it was beautiful to his eyes. Zeke’s attention flicked momentarily to the sky, which was clear and cloudless.

“If this was Your doing, I can’t be mad,” he said under his breath. Zeke’s Creator made no appearance or indication, but this kind of sudden shift in reality was right up that fucker’s alley.

Sally, who had been breathing shallow, yawned in her sleep and shifted. Her long, straight, and now-red hair cascaded overboard, sending the tips down into the calmly lapping water. Zeke regarded her long, bony arms and thought he must start feeding the poor girl more properly. Life on the road—and on the lamb—had begun to weaken both of them.

A lone heron, huge and gray-bodied, and looking like a prehistoric pterodactyl, flapped its way overhead. Zeke followed its progress and discovered he was suddenly looking at land—a sandy beach with trees in the distance—not even three hundred yards to the west. He jerked in surprise, sending the dinghy rocking, and had to grab the edges for balance. Sally was snapped away by the motion, too, and a series of emotions (shock, fear, consternation) transformed her face in quick succession, reminding Zeke of the whirling emblems on a slot machine. But as usual, the whirling stopped on a sort of serene, grinning wonder.

“Why is the rum always gone?” she asked absently, staring out towards the trees, then answered her own question: “Because it’s time for sandy beaches.”

She favored Zeke with a lopsided smile, then held the damp tips of her hair up before her.

“I’ve gone totally October,” she declared. Zeke leaned over and kissed her.

“You’re still Sally to me. Help me paddle to shore. We need to find something to eat, and maybe some water that doesn’t look so… green.”

“Like squarsh?” she asked.

Zeke soundlessly repeated the word, trying to hear it through the filter of Sally’s tangential mental processes, failed to decipher it, and just nodded.