THE JEWEL OF PARADOX
A Visionary Spy Story by Gill Schwartz

Chapter Five

The process of Seminato impregnates the Prima Materia
with Seeds of the transcendent.
These will dominante in the Work's unfolding.
It will be shaped by their particular energies, functions and
needs. My Work now, as Wizard,
is to nourish the Prima Materia
so that the relevent aspects thrive and develop
and the inconsequential ones starve and perish.

To accomplish this, it is as important for me to create
the appropriate hunger and thirst as to supply timely
and suitable nourishment. This will shape the Work's
final product, much as a plant or crystal's qualities
reveal the nature of their sustenance.

This Procedure of wise and appropriate feeding is called:

CIBATION or NURTURING

Jason anxiously watched the minute hand creep to 23 minutes past their ten o'clock rendezvous time when Plang Mengli finally entered the Bar. "It seems a half-hour late is Standard Far-Eastern Time," he whispered to Melissa.

"Maybe he was busy making arrangements for our removal," she hissed. Plang appeared in the highest of spirits, bounce in his short steps and in his voice as they exchanged greetings.

In front of the Hotel, before Melissa had time to gather a another bunch of urchin kids around her, they found an antiquated, horse-drawn coach awaiting them. It was bright red and gold lacquered and the door bore an elaborate emblem depicting a snake, and a single eye. The driver sitting on a perch above the pony looked very much like the cycleshaw driver we'd had earlier. But this one wore a stiff, epauletted jacket over his sarong and a red and gold braid entwined in his turban. "Since this is an official function, we thought you might enjoy traveling in my Official Vehicle," Plang chuckled with modest pleasure.

As they seated ourselves, the driver began the journey with a tirade of harsh guttural sounds and whip snapping that kept the bedraggled pony straining to keep up its faltering trot. Plang leaned back into the worn red plush-covered seat facing them and motioned them to make ourselves comfortable. The interior was tattered but regal with gold flashings and ornamentation. The wooden wheels jarred over the cobble stone streets, keeping them in a constant state of vibration.

Torrents of people flowed by on either side of them. "Where do all these kinds of people come from?" Melissa asked.

Plang opened his arms wide with a look of resigned amusement and shrugged. "One of the few kindnesses of our many conquerors was to leave us in such rich variety. Our neighbors claim, in good humor of course, that we are slut to the world. Balangpur means `Land of the Enslaved'

"Our Kingdom was founded and first ruled by a primordial race called the Imagos, described in our Ancient Works as golden Shining Ones. They came here from the Valley, at the center of the earth. Perhaps what your think of as paradise. They founded our nation and taught the people farming, the crafts and writing. They founded the Festivals throughout the year, the most important of which is tomorrow."

As he shared this explanation and during the rest of the evening, he made efforts to be charming and attentive to Melissa. But he felt her aversion to him only grow stronger. Amused by her superficial predictability, he wondered how he let such a person attract and cause me such distress.

"Some ages later, the Imagos found the people had advanced enough to rule themselves. They created a lineage of kings, from which our own King claims descent. Then they left us and returned to their Valley. The Festival of the Call is about just that, the Valley Kingdom of the Imagos and the fortunate one to be called there.

"Early palm-leaf records relate that their reign was a long period of peace and harmony. What followed after they left were the wars with neighboring kingdoms and natural disasters — earthquakes, floods and famines. All this weakened our spirits and depleted our resources. So when our first real contact with the outside world came, we were easily incorporated into a petty Chinese warlord's territory. From him we received the benefit of regular, systematic pillaging. Later a wave of East Indians came, saw that our gods and customs were not satisfactory, taught us Hinduism and how to build huge temples in stone, and disappeared into our bloodstreams. Later another wave came and persuaded us to convert to Buddhism. Three, perhaps four waves of Arabs overran us, so we practice several sects of Islam and smoke hashish.

"Modern history for us meant the English and French trading us back and forth through wars and private purchases, often as lands on which to grow opium poppy. This they forced on the Chinese, who reciprocated the hostility by coming to be our merchants. Then, more recently, the Japanese claimed us as bounty. And of course, each invader was thoroughly certain that before they came, we lacked even the simplest religion and culture. Your own country is now making polite overtures. The King had the two asphalt roads built recently so that the he would have someplace to drive the luxury sedans your Government sent him.

"You see," he exclaimed, putting his hand out the window to point at a post with signs in various scripts. "Street names in Chinese characters, Roman letters and Balangpuri ideograms. Our language is a mixture from all those origins. There are two canons in different parts of town that fire at noon — for strange historical reasons — twelve minutes apart.

"But now we are an independent, neutral, nonaligned monarchy, which means all are free to play us off against the others. We are surrounded by friends ready to consume us. Yes," he stretched like a man about to receive a long awaited reprieve, "such goings on make me even more prepared for the Transition from Yi Yu. No?" He gave us that conspiratorial smile again.

He was amused as he recounted their history, even guffawing. Outrageously comic, he heard him implying that this is the farce these people cling to and call their history. He touched another chord.

As they rattled and wove through the narrow, rambling lanes, Plang pointed out tiny shrines with brass wind-bells to honor gods and goddesses and the commemorative statues and plaques put up by various invaders. "he tell you again, my friends, he am glad you have come. he feel relief to leave this strife-filled world," he confessed, smiling but weary.

At the center of the sprawling city, where the black tarmack roads crossed, they came to the Palace. It seemed grandious to have in the middle of the town, many turreted and surrounded by spacious gardens and grounds. It had the proportions and grandeur of a cathedral, except for the air-conditioning tanks and an impressive array of antennas perched amidst the turrets. Peacocks walked about, pecking for worms in the manicured lawn, occasionally flourishing their luminescent-eyed tails.

Outside a warren of thatched huts leaned against the tall, ornate iron fencing that enclosed the royal grounds. Many destitute looking families loitered nearby. A few men, with military type hats on and little sarongs bestirred themselves when they noticed the carriage and started caring for the park-like expanse within the gate. Obviously on twenty-four hour call.

Catching the aim of his attention, Plang sighed. "Yes, our country's population grows tediously. The non-intercourse program has had little success. The King is anxious to see that television is everywhere," he nodded at the antennas, "so that the poor will have something else to do. One of the upcountry representatives suggests that we go back to cannibalism, on a controlled scale of course. But the radicals won't even let the bill be presented to the King for approval."

"At least it's an effort towards a homegrown solution for the Country's problems," Jason chuckled. Melissa looked disgusted with both the idea and him.

They left the coach at the Palace's main entrance and ascended one of two broad spiraling stairways that led up to the portico. The stairways' sweeping balustrades were in the form of dragons, their eyes sparkling with shards of red glass, the scales on their twisting bodies of green enamel. Part way up the coachman, still on his perch, called after them, "To tell the King, please, we are hungry too. Food is coming or he will eat bird." He waved a gaunt arm towards the distant wind fluttering peacocks.

The Wizard continued climbing without taking notice. "I'm afraid he is a little mentally unstable, if you see," he explained matter of factly. Many are like that from not taking proper meals."

The huge portal was flanked by two guards, the only ones he saw that night, uniformed in green with bright red and gold turbans and sporting antiquated rifles. At their approach, in unison, they crossed their hands their chests and smartly bowed. They followed Plang through the halls of white carpeting and crystal casino-type chandeliers. Tattered elegance. At Alul's approach everyone they passed performed the same salutation as the guards. Many showed respect and devotion, some awe. With a few he paused to exchange brief comments, with others he touched the tops of their bowed heads. Throughout the evening there was a trickle of people coming to him to receive his blessing.

Moving through the large, echo-filled rooms towards a great clamor, they found ourselves in the main salon. Candelabras and sparkling chandeliers filled the high-ceilinged room with festive light. A large sampling of the city's upper class populace milled about a thirty-foot long table in the center of the room. It was resplendent with roasts, curries, innumerable bowls of garnishes and chutneys, mounds of rice large enough to bury a lamb, and many bottles of French yin ordinaire.

Respectful space was made for them to walk past bearded Sikhs with fancy turbans and tailored suits, Chinese dignitaries, men and women in gray work suits, and Europeans of various sorts. Though everyone had been awaiting their arrival, it was clear their attention was focused on the lavish setting. Melissa commandeered a bottle of wine while a turbaned servant did a tour of the table, loading plates with food for them. Once the plates were in their hands, the others attacked the table with fervor.

Coaxing them to do likewise, Plang stuffed himself with everything in sight. Jason ate sparingly, with his usual finicky reserve, though what he did eat was tasty. As usual, too, he did most of his biting and chewing within, in his mental ruminations. What took his attention, rather than his usual fantasies of espionage and the intrigues that might be going on were less interesting to him than the simple fact that he was feeling good, for the first time in a long time, enjoying himself. His sense that things were going right filled him with pleasure and a mild, comfortable excitement.

After eating his fill and waiting with a slightly pensive look while the last mouthfuls settled, Plang motioned and took them by the elbows to lead. As they passed through the bubbling pond of humanity towards a far corner of the room, he told them, "There is one person here he am sure your will enjoy meeting. He is a great admirer of your nation and its ways. He would be so pleased, if you will be so kind. A special personage."

Melissa and he looked at each other and shrugged. Interesting people were always welcome. "he hope its the King," she whispered in Jason's ear.

The Wizard indicated a tattered plush couch against a wall. In it sat a young, wiry man. A huge silver urn surrounded with stacks of tiny porcelain cups on a trolley was next to him. "This is Bapu, Official Coffee Maker to the King. A Hereditary Office" the old man explained, "You can talk about your common interests. I have one errand to do. If you will take rest here, he am coming back soon."

The expression of glum disinterest on the young man's slack, full-nosed face bordered on imbecilic. Probably comes from the generations of his lineage waiting to fix the King a cup of coffee, Jason joked to himself.

"Bapu, my friend," Plang said in mock pleading tones, "please, these two felangis are coming from that country you have posters of on you walls. They would enjoy to hear how you are making your special coffee for the King and His Court." He smiled broadly at them, turned, and walked off to make his way back through the crowd, now somewhat quieted under the glut of food.

Bapu rose solemnly, with no change of expression on his dark face. He hitched up his skirt-like sarong and straightened his official gold and red braided turban.

"I am Bapu, Official Coffee Maker to the Court. Also was my father and his father before. Back till First Times." He rotely intoned the patter in a voice as flat as his expression.

"First, when boy, I learn all what they did. Morning, early, long before sunrise, roasting beans. Then grinding between stones while making water boil in ancient copper pot. Then you do this. Then you do that. Then the other, just like from First Times we are doing. They punish you if not finished by sunrise. But then, one day I see one of your soldiers resting from Fu-Ping War, you know. From little jar he take powder. He mix it in cup of hot water. But what I smell then is coffee. Soon I have big idea.

"So I am first one to change our ancient art with round-eye how you say, 'know-how'," he exclaimed with pride. "I use only new way now. Now ancient copper pot I fill with water. I put five cans Ole Manse Instant Coffee and special spices and herbs like always. Then I boil it a day, maybe more, till coffee is good and thick. Like oil, King likes it and call me good names. Is good to be modern like round-eyed peoples. Easy life is good."

He bent towards them and flicked his eyes from side-to-side as if checking to see that no one was listening. "You can know this too, because you are from there," he raised his eyebrows slightly, "all that what I hear in the Court, I sell to C.E.U.." He nodded vigorously. Was he trying to tell them the C.I.A.? Jason wondered. The young man drew back his lips in what they took to be a smile, and showed them his teeth, red with chewing beatle-nut.

Having said his piece, Bapu's face went slack again as he pushed his urn-laden cart towards a group of people beckoning him. he grinned at his absurd little expressionless patter. His own little wisdom talk, his kind of alchemy, right down to the garbled bit about the 'C.E.U.'. But all signs of life had sure been smashed out of him by his heritage. So this was the informant that brought them here. he did wonder what Plang's point was of bringing them to hear him.

Melissa looked at him with a quizzical smirk to say, what the hell was that about?" She whispered in sharp undertone.

Mr. Abernathy had come into the room just before Plang dragged them over to see Bapu. From where Jason and Melissa sat, they now saw the two of them were just leaving the dining room, talking animatedly.

"When we overheard them this afternoon, Plang was definite that he didn't want any part of the N.U.B." Jason purposefully leaned back into the couch to show how relaxed he was. he felt he needed to reassure her.

"Don't be naive, Jason! We don't know how much they know about us, with that omen reading of his and all. That conversation between them could easily have been a plant," she retorted.

A cluster of dignitaries in long black robes and medal-festooned chests approached them smiling. They gave them the crossed-arm bow, muttered and moved on. Melissa and he looked at each other quizzically. Apparently they were being honored as the Wizard's guests. An Indian military officer approached next and bowed. Then a shaven-headed monk wrapped in ochre robes came. Next a pale Arab in flowing robes and turban approached, contemplating Melissa's bosom.

Melissa beamed and looked gratified as the homage continued, but Jason was curious about Plang. "I'll trail him and see what he's up to," he whispered.

By the time he got there, the two men were no longer together. Mr. Abernathy was walking out a far door and Plang was back at the laden table. The old man can really pack it away, Jason thought. Plang directed an ancient lackey to fill a plate high, then led him with words and gestures. He and the servant, the piled plate carried in both hands, went out through the front door.

The food must be for the coach driver, Jason realized. He watched Plang as he returned. No hint in his expression beyond the usual mixture of amused curiosity. Jason was pleased with him and impressed.

What you feed and what you feed it with,
Determines what will flourish and what will not.
Hungers of the soul can't be appeased with food, but
The flesh that does the soul's bidding can feast.

 

Jason waited till Plang went back in the dining room and a minute later followed him. He came upon him talking with Mr. Abernathy again, sitting in two easy chairs in a corner. As Plang looked up at him without surprise, Jason suspected that he'd been aware of being tailed, maybe from the beginning.

"Ah, I am glad you have come," Plang greeted him. "Our friend here was just saying how much he would like to speak with you," he told him.

Jason flinched at the thought that this be might another rote lecture like Bapu's.

Mr. Abernathy rose heavily from the lounging chair to offer an affable expression and a handclasp. Manners and fine tailored suit aside, he reminded him of a primitive, perhaps Cromagnum man. His thick-boned body in an ape-like stance and the eyes behind his thick, rimless glasses revealed some primal, sapient consciousness.

Plang looked across the room to where Melissa sat, still receiving a trickle of homage offerers. "You two talk. I will join Melissa and meet you for after," the old man said, offering Jason his chair and crossed the room.

Jason sat, feeling he had been manipulated into coming.

"You are fortunate to have found a friend in the Wizard," Mr. Abernathy told him, somberly gazing in his eyes. He kept this eye to eye contact as they talked, intense, undistracted.

"He is a very powerful man in Balangpur. To come as his guest of honor is no small privilege. Such is your importance to him. You could have influence." He squeezed on that last word. "It is a crucial moment just now. And he carries as much influence with the King as he does with the people." In spite of the firm focus of his intention, he smiled good-naturedly as they spoke.

"Tell me about your Nearly Universal Brotherhood. What do you want from Plang?" Jason asked. If he were to be a pawn, he wanted to know the objective and stakes in the game. While Mr. Abernathy answered, Jason caught sight of Melissa and Plang sitting on the overstuffed couch, chatting. It seemed his persistent charming her was having effect. She was smiling.

"Our political party, the Nearly Universal Brotherhood is formed from all stratums. You have observed that we are established in great poverty and stagnation. On one side is corruption, malpractice and exploitation. On the other hand is a firm suppression of the needful. This creates great angry apathy and inefficiency. So we perish," he reflected mournfully.

"The Brotherhood comes from such hungers. Our goal is to restore all things as Balangpur was in First Times. Now we undergo much chaos. But then, one thing was important above all others. All state-craft was to one purpose, to prepare the ground for all persons to attain the best. Not merely a Welfare State, caring only to material needs. But also the means that allows each person to follow their pursuit, to attain their personal call. That was so in First Times and must be so now, according to our aims."

"Sounds like a beautiful ideal," Jason agreed.

"There are many of us who are ready to strive, determined that things must improve to where they were in First Times. He peered into his eyes with fixed intent, his eyes huge behind his thick glasses. "Now there is an opportunity. Good stars, we say. Important decisions are coming and decisions are more important than promises. We must, as your people say, strike while the iron is hot."

Yes, Jason could picture Mr. Abernathy at an anvil, stripped of his urban veneer, sweating in front of a furnace. A Herculean smithy, forging the shape of his peoples' destiny with hammer and tongs.

"It is a most important moment for the Nearly Universal Brotherhood, for all the Balangpuri people. Our King is now in your Country seeking an aid program. As we understand, if only foods and such are given, it will all be lost in our many open mouths and empty bellies. If guns are given, though they cannot be eaten, they will give us power. The N.U.B. party must insist that the military loan is most suitable. If we can defend ourselves from the threatening imperialists and create that ideal we have, we will naturally prosper. Not to be like poor Fu-Ping again. Everybody's war game." He leaned towards Jason to emphasize his point, his smile revealing a long set of stubby teeth in his heavy jaws.

"We have need for Plang. He can persuade the King. The Wizard is alive since First Times. He knows the secret of how to make things happen by his powers with the Spiral. With him as the pivot point, we can turn that way again. Only in this matter of the loan, he has some strange ideas. He says that to take weapons from your government to defend ourselves will make us sink deeper into the Spiral. But because the Wizard has the King's good ear, if he asks to give us support, our hopes are good. Maybe you can speak with him about this thing. You might discover if he has some soft spot we can use. You could be our country's great friend."

He grew tight, stern. "And there is one other thing. We know this problem he makes for your military with his Spell of Harmlessness." He raised his heavy eyebrows. "We have some powers too. If he will not help us, we can arrange that he will not help Fu-Ping any more either." His face fell and he shrugged his thick shoulders with sad resignation.

Clearly, he would be willing to do whatever seemed necessary to fulfill his hopes, and eliminate whoever hindered his plans. Jason was intrigued with the creations of his mind, but wasn't interested in putting any energy into them. Ready to go, Jason rose and made a move to say good-bye, but Mr. Abernathy motioned him on and came with him. They walked towards Plang and Melissa who were still chatting on the couch across the room.

"Put this question to yourself," Mr. Abernathy continued. "Why have you come here, at just this time? You know, this Festival of the Call is the pivot of the year. It is a great opening on the horizon when two minds can meet and join forces." He whispered like a conspirator as they wove through the thinning crowd. "It is not the one-and-one of arithmetic. Here is the interplay of strong wills and joined minds inspired with some great idea. Such powers can work miracles. Together, at last, we will reach the goal."

"And this is all about taking care of the hunger here?"

"Hunger, yes hunger is all we are talking about. But, as the Wizard is saying, not simply like dogs in the rubbish, but like men, with hungers in the heart. Even to take the risk of life is proper. We are all on a pilgrimage. We are here for some little while, then a long time gone. Better to do what is in our hands to do."

Doing as a way to homage an ideal
May seem to offer expression to falsehood, too.
What is elixir to one aspect of Prima Materia
Might be poison to another.

Jason chuckled to himself. Joining the Nearly Universal Brotherhood's cause would be a great way to twist the Abbot's head around. For sure!

As they neared Plang and Melissa, Jason heard her ask snippily, "Listen, I thought I was going to meet your King."

"Oh, I pull my ears and slap my face with shame," he answered politely, without the accompanying gestures. "I am sorry that you are disappointed. At this time, the snow is good in the Alps , and the King chooses to be there for skiing," he explained.

Mr. Abernathy smiled at Jason knowingly, as if they were in collusion over the truth of the King's whereabouts. Jason looked at the Wizard and wondered.

"Do you mean there's this huge reception, ambassadors and ministers right and left, and the King's not here," Jason exclaimed laughing, but feeling irritated and a bit unsettled. "Then what's this celebration all about?"

"Well, my friends," Plang graciously explained, "this feast is to celebrate the first night of the Festival of the Call. And it is also my pleasure to have you as our guests of honor, whether the King is here or not." Melissa and Jason glanced at each other. She squinted her eye suspiciously at Plang. Jason was pleased with the Wizard's overtures but also suspicious. Plang rose from the couch and gestured for them to follow.

"There is to be entertainment soon, a dance-drama that will help you to understand more about this Festival." He took Jason's arm and led him out of the dinning room and through another maze of hallways and rooms. The other two followed behind along with a trickle of people flowing in the same direction.

"You had a worthwhile chat with Mr. Kwim-Mu Abernathy?" Plang asked Jason. "He is always encouraging people to do things. Such is his nature." As the Wizard spoke he lightly grasped Jason's wrist, his fingers resting on the pulse. Jason soon felt a release, as if he'd been holding his breath. "He has a kind of magnetism," Plang chuckled.

As they walked, a slight, very oriental looking, middle aged man joined them. His head and face were clean shaven, and he wore simple white, starched pajamas. "This is Monsieur Tussaud," Plang introduced him, using a good French pronunciation. "He is my most learned student. But he still can't understand what I'm talking about." Plang gave a tonsil revealing laugh.

Candles dimly lit the small room Plang led them into. Thick drapes covered three walls and the air was heavy with incense. A stage-like area was set before rows of pillowed easy chairs. He led them to sit in the front row. Arrayed on the floor to one side was an assemblage of musicians and their otherworldly instruments — everything imaginable to thump or beat on. Some musicians sat encircled by graduated gongs, cymbals and bells. Others had huge two-headed drums resting on their laps. One sat inside a circular xylophone, the bamboo slats like a hundred spokes around him. There were sets of bamboo clappers, rattles and staffs. Two rows of solemn men held obese flutes with wide, bell-shaped mouths. Every instrument in sight was lacquered with embellishments in gold, blood-red and black.

The musicians readied themselves with nods and whispers. Then, sudden and heavy as a jungle deluge, the music started. Everyone played at once in a scintillating interweaving of layers, each with its own rhythm and sequence. It drenched them for a while. Then, with another sudden transition, the percussive flow became a soft, intricate pattern of tonalities while the flute players dropped from a frantic jabber to a low, melodious wailing. Then, without warning, the deluge fell again. The current came and went, bringing the percussions to rise and fall in tempo and intensity. It seemed like an elaborated music of nature, devoid of human emotions.

While he heard crowds still wandering around the other rooms, only a few people were in attendance, and these chatted and nibbled on tidbits they'd brought in from the feast. None seemed particularly taken with the music

"Don't people enjoy this?" Jason asked.

"This is not really the entertainment yet. Only a signal for those still eating to come," M. Tussaud assured him. "I have studied this Drama of the Call so much, it is always exciting to watch it danced," he commented with anticipation.

Plang patted Jason's hand. "So you know he can answer any question you might have," he jokingly assured. "Even things you wouldn't know how to ask."

M. Tussaud bowed in agreement. Five sleek, ivory fleshed hermaphroditic youngsters came into the room, one carrying a stage sword. They shuffled, burdened by armpit high, encasing sarongs made of jewel encrusted silk brocade. All wore elaborate crowns, appearing heavy enough to snap their delicate necks. With movement so curtailed, their walk was a dreamlike floating. Ankle-bells sounded at each barefoot step, syncopating with the ebb and flow of the orchestra's music and they came to stand between the gamelon orchestra and their seats. Now people in a festive mood poured into the room, filling the chairs and rug covered floor-spaces.

M. Tussaud whispered loud enough for them all to hear, "The dancers are three of the King's sons and two of his concubines." It amused Jason because they all seemed of the same, indefinite sex.

The flow of music stopped as the dancers stood before them on the circular mahogany stage. Facing them in a row, their heads bowed, palms joined at their chests, the dancers carried out elaborate dance invocations to the four directions, to the earth and to the sky.

"Is this sort of a religious play. I mean, is there a teaching or miracle in it?" Melissa asked the Wizard. Jason was pleased with the interest in her voice. Maybe it reminded her of something at her convent school. He suspected that Plang's manner with her had much to do with her change of mood. And being well fed must have helped too.

"Ah, yes a very ancient, most holy myth," the Wizard told her proudly. "For us, it is the central myth, the one our personal Spiral spins around. It is a kind of miracle. The drama of one who is called to join the Imagos, to awaken to his Other self. It has been danced like this since First Times, so each gesture carries the treasures of ages. As we watch, Tussaud, no doubt, will explain what he knows of it. The gestures and symbols are self-explanatory to us. But I'm afraid they may not be so to you." The Plang and M. Tussaud chuckled and nodded to each other knowingly.

The dancers' invocation finished, the hurling rain of rhythm started again, and the dancing began. With their binding costumes, they barely moved from the waist down, as if fixed to the ground. Yet they blended with the rippling flow of sound with angular gestures of hands and head, bare shoulders and arms. As their bodies flexed from one posture to another, their arms and faces moved in a flurry that expressed symbol and stylized emotion at once.

"Now we see the dance portrayal of the Call, the Call to First Times," M. Tussaud explained. "This is what tonight's Feast celebrates. These five dancers are the Imagos, the ones that taught us all our ways and created the Call. There, the dancer in the center with a band over one eye, he is the one who is Called. He is the Pushu. Those two dancing at his side, arms linking with his, those are Fars and Turo. They are the twin Imagos of Body and Mind. Here we see them as playful companions. But it is not always so." He gave a knowing smile. "They are servants in this dance-drama. But they are innocents, so, when left on their own, they often make mischief. But when they are helpers to the Pushu on his quest, they carry out their tasks to perfection.

"Next we come to the old wise one." He nodded to the Wizard sitting next to him. "There, in the Valley, he is called the Dreamer. He is the dancer with the cotton beard and the sword." Grinning over M. Tussaud's shoulder, Plang stroked his own smooth chin. "He displays great influence among the Imagos.

"And there is Meriflur, the Eternal Female. She is the source of all things feminine — mother, daughter, sister, beloved, tormentor, bitch. Of course, there must be romance. Ancient tales or modern ones, affairs of the heart take our interest. In this version of the drama, she becomes the Pushu's beloved and consoler. These four Imagos and the Pushu will show us the deep teachings in the Call."

To the reverberations of the gongs and chimes, the dancers' bodies melted and flowed from one articulated gesture to another. They seemed remote, apart from their stylized movements and expressions. Their thickly powdered and painted faces floated above their long, nailed fingers that tautly splayed back and forth.

The Dreamer came forward carrying the sword and danced solo while the others held fixed poses. "He is announcing that it is time for the Pushu to become the Bearer of the Two-edged Gift, to die to his old life and to open to his life as bearer of the Mystery beyond the Spiral. This is the deep Call. But see, the Pushu is reluctant. He beckons his friends and lover to him. They dance around and with him to protect and distract him. There is great fear in the Pushu and upset," M. Tussaud laughed.

"You see," M. Tussaud exclaimed, "the Dreamer rolls his eyes with excitement at the Pushu. He dances and chants his sacred announcement:

"Now is to be what has never been;
one, without shadow or reflection."

"Explain how the others help the Pushu now," Plang coaxed him. M. Tussaud grinned as though they'd come to his favorite part. "Until now the dancers only portrayed their roles as Imagos. Now we see them take on and use the powers of the primal Element each Imago embodies. In that form, they can do the work that is needed. Each Imago, because it radiates the powers of its Element, works on the Elements within the Pushu's being, to free them. Intuition, feeling, action and thought are reduced to their primal energies -Fire, Water, Earth and Air. He is dismembered in order to reassemble in a totally new way, we might say."

"What's the point of putting him through all that?" Melissa snapped.

The Wizard chuckled. He placed the palm of his hand over his chest. "They are creating in him, here in his Heart Center, a place for the Jewel of Paradox. That will be the source of his transformation, his means to go beyond the Realm of Duality." The same terms he used when he did his Omen casting on them. He and Melissa looked at each other with muffled groans. "Beyond the realm of Yi Yu," Jason suggested. The old man grinned back.

"It was by means of the Jewel of Paradox that the Imagos came to us from the Valley. The Jewel of Paradox is the portal that lets one move back and forth between the realms, and eventually beyond them. The Call is only about that coming into being."

The choreography had been uniform among them. Now each role became very distinct. Each dancer's hand and body movements portraying their Element's character in a unique and convincing way.

M. Tussaud continued enthusiastically. "Fars' movements carry the weight and solidness of the Earth. Turo's swift, easy gyrations show the lightness and volatileness of Air. Fire's transformative and enlightening force move the Dreamer as the moist flow of Water guides and nurtures through Meriflur," M. Tussaud elaborated.

First the Dreamer approached the Pushu and lunged and snapped back and forth before him, shaking and shuddering in a flame-like mime. Reflected sparks flew from his blazing red silk costume, a creation of peaks and edges. The Pushu shook at his assault as if the blaze seared him.

Then Meriflur came to work at the Pushu. Gently but persistently, with ceremonial bows and polite head nods she edged the Dreamer aside. Jason was fascinated by the contrast between their styles. The sea blue scarves covering Meriflur from head to foot never ceased rippling, undulating with her lithe body's movement. He sensed her soothing influence after the Dreamer's conflagration. Moist, nurturing, healing, the feminine blessings.

Then Fars, the Imago holding the presence of the Earth, stomped over and gruffly pushed her aside. He stolidly stood before the Pushu, who was still undulating with the after effects of Meriflur's bewitchment. Fars lowered his head, eyes locked with the Pushu's, and began to ceremonialy stomp from foot to foot. Although the dancer's slight figure was evident within Fars' costume, its brown silk was bunched up to look like a very stocky body. His stolid movements and rhythmic stomping did coax the Pushu to join in the stomping with him, to 'ground' him, Jason understood, though it had him close to laughter. Then Turo floated in.

"See how easily Turo spins and floats like a puff of smoke or a thought frolicking through the mind," M. Tussaud commented with pride. "He is my chosen Imago," he knowingly repeated with pride.

This was the most gifted of the dancers. In the ephemeral yellow gauze of her costume, she seemed truly disembodied. She was a wisp of smoke or cloud, Air made visible to dance for them to the rambling chimes and bells. As she wafted about, the Pushu grew visibly lighter, unburdened. This was an opening Element, freeing him.

A series of dramatic thumping rose from the orchestra, all the instruments striking in unison. The four Imagos circled round the crouching Pushu, one open palm over him. Is it a blessing, he wondered, or a way of keeping him contained? With their other hands they reached up, as if grasping a common object. Their hands closed on it, their finger tips touching. Then they brought it down and placed it in the Pushu's heart.

He hunched up to himself with his hands over his Heart Center, in great joy or anguish, he couldn't tell which. He was frozen, motionless in the others spinning midst but for occasional shudders and shakes.

"Now he holds the Jewel of Paradox within himself. Through it he is being aligned with all realms and dimensions," M. Tussaud explained with longing in his voice.

"He has swallowed his shadow and his reflection," the Wizard added. "This part cannot really be shown, cannot be seen on the outside. The others can only support and guard him as he inwardly passes through the Jewel of Paradox. "Praise, praise. The Turnaround Time," the Wizard chanted.

Jason had a sense what that might mean. It reminded him of Jesus' parable of passing through the eye of a needle. He knew it meant shedding all the things of the world, including who you are in it, and opening to another you. He imagined it to be like passing through a lens, a magnifying glass, the cornea of an eye. Everything flips, comes out back to front. He sensed what the Pushu must be going through there surrounded by the Elements of his life in total transformation. Everything changed. Nothing can ever be like it was again. The Pushu knows all this while anxiously awaiting things to come together again in their new, imponderable way.

A light, gentle pattering of bells came, like the feel of a breeze -soothing, refreshing. A deep, muffled drum joined them with a slow, steady thump. Then all the musicians joined in the slow, steady rhythm.

The Pushu slowly stood and bowed to each of the Imagos, his hands still crossed over his Heart Center, head bowed, treasuring, guarding it. M. Tussaud said, "The Pushu is touched with gratitude. He is proud of his Call and is determined. He has conquered his fears. He no longer listens to his mind's imagining ways he cannot go."

The Dreamer stood before the Pushu, offering him the Two-edged Sword, ceremomialy, with both hands. The dancers held their pose while the orchestra used its percussive artistry to portray the buildup and release of tensions, evocative of storms, of deep turmoil. At last, with a gesture of resolution, the Pushu accepted the Sword from the Dreamer.

"He bids his friends and lover good-bye, and follows the Dreamer for the final 'Ceremony of Transference'," The other three stayed behind to dance a celebration for their friend," M. Tussaud uttered, very moved by the drama. The two dancers, the bearded one and the Pushu, now bearing the sword, one behind the other, palms joined, left the stage and went out of the room.

Music feeds the soul. Mythic drama affirms
the essence of reality. Together they
fuel the four Principles alive in all being.
He who is Called lives such a dance-drama.

"And what happens now with that sword and all?" Melissa asked suspiciously. "Who does what to whom?" That seemed like a good question to Jason, too. Especially under the circumstances.

"There are mysteries. And there are Mysteries. Some can be revealed. Others must reveal themselves," Plang instructed with a cautioning tone.

"Now the Pushu is in First Times, what you might call paradise. What he first feared as a dark and hidden place he now knows as the Valley of Light," M. Tussaud summarizes in a poignant tone, "where he finds his Imago friends again and his Other."

Gongs and drums marked the crescendo. The performance over, the room drained as quickly as it had filled. It was now 1:22 a.m. on Jason's watch.

In spite of the strangeness of the outer forms, the story touched Jason on many levels. Illuminating what was unfolding for him with the Wizard, the story moved in a way that transcended its unfamiliarity, like watching an engrossing foreign film and soon forgetting you're following subtitles and not the film's original language.

M. Tussaud bid them a warm goodbye, and the other three returned through the hallways to the Palace's main entrance in silence.. As they entered the Official Carriage, the driver called down, "Food came, so I don't eat any birds. See, see," he pointed in all directions. "All the pretty birds are there." In the nearly full-moon's light, Jason could see peacocks and hens scattered about the grounds roosted down for the night. But he thought he did see the bright eye of a tail feather on the driver's perch.

The lanes and streets they clattered down were nearly empty. A late night chill had set in and crickets sang as raucously as if it were a wilderness swamp.

"I am glad our little festivities were enjoyed," the Wizard said, obviously pleased.

"The evening did go nicely, didn't it?" Jason asked Melissa.

"On silver wings," she answered snippily and yawned. He decided to just let her stare out the window, moping. he had other things on my mind and wanted to get a better idea of what the Call was really about — to find some answers for the charged questions it raised in his mind.

"Tell me, what is your connection with the Dreamer? I know he is your Imago. But it goes deeper than that, doesn't it?" he insisted. "Mr. Abernathy implied that you are him, in some way."

"I wasn't always the same being as him. But yes, I am now," he smiled tolerantly. "Again, you are asking to have a mystery explained. This is not an easy matter. Mysteries are for living. He and I are not different from each other, but it would not be believable to say that he and I are the same person. You will have to let such awareness come with time. At the Ceremony tomorrow, watch and have more words with M. Tussaud. He will fill you with useful thoughts. Ideas give him some pleasant sensations." He pointed to his temple and gave a silly, blinking grin. "For me, I look only to the mystery beyond the Spiral's spinning."

He made it clear Jason wasn't going to get any further on that tack. Jason was frustrated and, as usual, he felt on the offensive. A snarl was caught back in his throat.

"I was interested in what Mr. Abernathy said about Balangpur's regional politics and your own role in its neutrality," he asked with intentional politeness.

"A nation with a history like ours has no choice but to be neutral and to protect itself," the Wizard answered, a weighty look in his eyes.

"You know, we heard some strange stories about how you protect that neutrality," Melissa interjected. It seems that no weapons can work inside your borders, that planes can't even get at rebel troops that sneak over here to hide," she blurted in anger. Tired though she was, Jason felt she still could have shown some restraint.

"Oh, believe me, my friends, we are certainly not trying to disparage your Jihad, your holy war. I am sure Fu-Ping will benefit greatly from your attentions as much as we have from the Powers that deigned to take interest in us."

"Tell us then, plainly if you would," Melissa bit out her words, "What exactly was it that you did?"

"I suggested to the King, the simplest way to show our complete neutrality was to make all weapons ineffective within our domain. As the Wizard of State, I carried out the Spell of Harmlessness," he explained with shy pride. "It could have been tedious, as it was necessary to sprinkle consecrated sand around the protected area, our borders to be exact. But happily, a visiting Swiss mountain climbing expedition lent a helicopter. So it all went rather easily."

Melissa smiled acidly. "How come you needed a plane to fly?"

The old man laughed richly. "I did have a mischievous temptation to leave the circle open so that the Spell would affect the whole world."

Jason burst out laughing at imagining what that might look like. "So you are telling us, that, however you did it, you take responsibility for that situation. And that, if you saw it in your role as Balangpur's protector, you might engage in more such activities?" She was pressing hard. It wasn't discernment. It was inquisition.

Boundaries, borders, limits are needed
To contain and protect the now rooting Seeds.
Safety to one may seem rejection to the other.
The No can be as nuturing as the Yes.

Plang looked at her, searchingly. Then he turned to Jason, his face calm, composed. Jason realized he was more interested in what the Wizard had to say about the Spell than in his so called innocence or guilt.

"Behind all this, you know, is your nation's fascination with destruction and killing." Plang spoke with a deep sadness and concern. "It is what drives you into these things. You pretend to be fighting some evil. But what frightens you isn't the world's evil, but the fragmentation and chaos inside yourself. You have sacrificed wholeness and feeling for the sake of acting in control of yourself, of nature, of others. And, most naturally, you find you have destroyed your own sense of meaning and purpose."

"You come this far from home to protect ideals to avoid seeing that those ideals do not work for you. In your national and personal lives, you evoke and cling to violence because that at least moves you, energizes you to cope with your personal day-to-day anguish. It is a way to put off the inevitable need to recognize and deal with yourself. All life, even the life of the planet might be fuel for your funeral pyre."

Something moved and churned deep in Jason's belly. He felt he was about to vomit something vile, toxic. But he stopped himself, not ready yet to let loose of it.

Melissa's face was disfigured with searing anger. "So that's how you justify sticking your nose into other people's affairs. You're the Gestapo officer that sees that everybody stays in line. Well personally, I don't care who you think you are. I don't have to take..."

"Melissa," Jason coaxed her, "I don't think we need to take this personally. Plang, if I understand correctly, is talking about that situation in general. And he only echoes what a lot of people say."

"Yes, certainly, I do not intend to offend," he answered in a humoring tone. "I only try to disclose the motives behind my actions. Accompany me to our Festival of the Call tomorrow. It will help explain much about our ways and attitudes. Everyone will be there. Imagos and men. Even the real Pushu," he nodded enthusiastically.

They had arrived back at the Hotel Impeccable. The night's silence, syrupy and cool, poured in where the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels had been.

"But morning means early. The Parade of the Imagos starts with sunrise," Plang informed them jokingly as he opened the coach-door for them. "I will pass by. If you are up and interested, I will gladly accompany you. If not, O.K., see you for after." He shook Jason's hand and managed, with resistance from Melissa, to kiss hers.

"I thought that day would never end," Melissa said wearily as they climbed the stairway. In their room, she rambled on, already half-asleep, delivering groggy thoughts as they arose.

"Some eternities are definitely longer than others," he quipped.

She yawned and arched like a cat as she began to strip. "We've really stepped into weirdsville this time, haven't we. A royal Feast with no King around. Plang pretending to treat us like honored guests after that omen reading of his. And what was that thing with Bapu? Was he the informant the Abbot was talking about. And ohh.." she stopped mid-movement, bra half off, to moan, "that weird noise they call music. At least I could close my eyes to those people wiggling around like cut worms. But having to sit through that beating on pans and garbage-can lids was too much."

She finished dropping her clothes on her suitcase and sat in the rattan easy-chair. She took a deep, raspy breath.

"What did you and Plang talk about back there that had you laughing," Jason asked her.

"Oh, he was telling me about his visit to one of his disciples in L.A. and the adventures he had with some characters there. Funny, but really no point to it. Just more of the doddering fool's babbling all the time," she muttered through tight lips. "King's Wizard, my ass. Maybe Court Fool would be a better title for him. It's pretty clear from his chatter he can't tell fantasy from truth. Sprinkling sand around the country..." she drawled sarcastically. "Those remarks about our country's motives... Not necessary, and not appreciated. Well, anyway, it saves us the trouble of having to hang around this god awful place — weird, dirty and full of uninviting smells. He's given confession that he bears the culpa. That's all we need to know. Our assignment was clear. Any cause for suspicion and he deserves to get it. We deliver the Sacraments and get out of here. It's been quaint. But enough!" She gave him that no-nonsense, ice-cube-in-the-eye look.

Jason gathered himself. Was there a way he could get this across to her without making himself an enemy?

"Something is happening here besides politics and sides in this war." He tried to stay calm and clear. "He was talking metaphysically about those spells. Spiritually. He cares for his people. Something here feels very important to me. It touches a place in me I thought was dead and gone. You know I've always been seeking some answer, something to quench this longing." He'd never talked with her this way before, but he desperately hoped she could hear him.

"You understand, don't you, Melissa? Please, let's leave him alone till I can get a clear picture on this."

He took a long, deep breath, and risked. "Maybe he really is a Wizard. And its not just about casting spells and magic either. He can do those things because he's connected to other realms. He knows how to create transformation."

A slow, quizzical look came over her face. "That's off the deep end enough for me, Jason. Help me to understand. Tell me for real now, what are you after? Yes, I've spent a lot of time with you in a lot of ways. And honestly, I get you less now than ever." Her voice was heavy, serious. "The Abbot gave you this mission to prove yourself to the Order rather than censure you. Some of the Bishops aren't happy with your attitudes and your peculiar ways of carrying out your ministry. He warned us about being taken in by this man. I'm certainly not! This is just more of your looking for the impossible."

They looked at each others' eyes, but didn't see each other at all. A block of silence congealed around them. The late night sounds below, the rattle of a wooden-wheeled wagon across the cobble stones, a wandering goat's tinkling bell, someone chanting in the far distance. Here we are, he thought, in the most exotic place in the world, and we're recreating the same old torment for ourselves. He went and looked out over the balcony at the town spread out below.

"You know what, Jason. Whatever your personal take is on all this, we are here on a mission. A just and proper decision is made. Its time to carry out our orders."

He walked to her sitting in the chair and looked down into her eyes. "I'm trying to make it clear, Melissa, I need more time. Please, it's that important to me."

She rose to face him, put her hands on her hips, and burst out laughing.

"Oh, you really know how to twist things around back to front, don't you. The Abbot would enjoy your little joke. He sends you here to kill this old fart, and now your think maybe he's too interesting for that. O.K., you win, Jason. You win," she moaned. "Let's decide in the morning. I'm dead on my feet."

He was silent and quickly showered and got into bed. As she went into the bathroom, he tucked the mosquitto-net tightly under the mattress on his side and pulled the sheet up to his armpits.

Through the ripples of the mosquito net, he saw her coming towards him from the bathroom in her loaded-groin sway. Without reflecting, he closed his eyes as if asleep. "Listen," she cooed, "let's forget about this parade thing so we can at least get a good night's sleep, and maybe time for a little snuggle, huh? We can do what we have to do later on."

He felt childish and self-conscious and hoped she hadn't seen through the net. He really didn't want any. He heard her stop by the bed and look down at him a few moments. She gave a laugh, somewhere between a snort and a sigh. Then she turned off the light and noisily got under the net on her side of the bed.

He kept tensely still. After some minutes of fidgety turning, she fell off into her innocent sleep. Then he relaxed. His gut and jaw unclenched. The gripping tightness in his bowels let loose and the pain dissolved. It had been the tension with her afterall and not from overeating at the Feast.

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Copyright Nathaniel Schwartz 2010