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Chapter Seven
In our Alchemical quest, the Prima Materia was drawn out of the welter of day to day chaos. I soaked this with tears, sweat and semen into solution. This I shook and stirred and twirled around till all the Elements in the Prima Materia into active interaction. Into this rich and readied medium I placed the Seed of transcendent meaning, of transformative purpose. Through fostering appropiate hungers and discerning care with their nurturing, those Elements called for in this transformation thrive. The others perish. The broth of Prima Materia was now readied for a purification, the separating out of the selected and nurtured Elements and disposal of the others.
This elixir of the Prima Materia enables me to open the Work to a higher vibration, a fuller context. This needs a new context, a universal consciousness, both personal and transpersonal, self and non-self. In this, I gather these Elements into encompassing relationship between the Immanent -the horizontal realm of space-time, and the worldly life and the Transcendent -the vertical, infinite ascending levels of being-consciousness.
Now this is the context for all Procedures. It thus holds the potential so that each aspect of the Work may act as a link and merge these two otherwise irreconcilables. As in the Cross of Christ.
This gives the Work a cosmic environment in which to evolve, the context in which to fulfill its highest calling. For me, there is the ongoing experience of being an individual expression of the Divine Impulse. The Realms of Innermost and uUiversal come as close as inhalation and exhalation.
We call this relating the Work to the universal:
COSMOSIS
Jason thought it sounded like a tiny, eight-legged reptile scurrying round and round, scratching at the ceiling and walls. His eyes opened just a crack to gaze and check. Then he tried to convince himself it was only the curtains rubbing in the morning breeze. So it was all right to ignore so he could sleep more. Finally, he understood it must be Plang, persistently but softly scratching on the door. 5:16 a.m.. Still no daylight behind the thick shutters. The last hours had been a good, renewing sleep. He slipped on his pants, opened the door, and found Plang smiling cheerfully up at him. He looked fresh and rested, though he couldn't have had much sleep either. Partly, Jason realized, it was the effect of his being dressed in a loose, long shirted white pajama suit -like M. Tussaud wore last night- and a gray afghan cap. "I am glad to see you in the perpendicular," He greeted Jason and gave him a brisk nod. Our other companion, M. Tussaud, will no doubt meet us. Then we can make a move." Plang dismissed him with a smile and a flapping of his hands to go get ready, then went back down stairs. As Jason closed the door, Melissa muttered in her pillow, "The old bugger. Pushing us around like this." "Come on, flower," he coaxed her. "All in the line of duty." He felt cheerful enough to use that long dormant pet name for her. "Shit", she exclaimed drowsily. Jason tilted open the shutter-blinds. The streets nearby were empty, but he heard crowds of people passing down a distant one in measured, direful step. They were softly chanting that same arabesque melody as last night, embellished now and again with a plaintive moan or sob. As Melissa slowly, stumblingly got herself together, she asked. "He did say it was a Festival today, didn't he? It doesn't sound all that jolly so far, does it. But it fits the way I feel," she moaned. She looked well hung-over, too. Still strange for him how she could look guileless all night while asleep and wake up looking like such a shrew. "Oh, it'll probably cheer up once the band starts playing and folks get a couple of drinks in them," he cajoled and aimed her towards the bathroom. "They just had three happy holidays last month anyway. Got to change off. Otherwise it gets tedious." "Yeh, this is probably another one of those countries that spend everything they've got on such foolishness. All the money we give them," she exclaimed acidly, suddenly involved and offended. "Well, in this caldron of different cultures, a glut of holidays would be hard to avoid. Besides, it's probably the best way to keep people's minds off of other things. Like hunger. Concern for the next bowl of rice can fill a man's whole life, if you don't distract them. The Roman circus syndrome and all." He was enjoying myself at their expense and Melissa's still sleep-groggy wits. Jason remembered Mr. Abernathy earnestly telling him, "We are having many hungers, but we are not simply like dogs in the rubbish eating with every limb." Yes, brother, he agreed in retrospect." "You're in high spirits today," she observed as she stood turning from her hair brushing before the mirror, her expression accusing, as if he'd gotten hold of some goodies and not told her. "Come on, Melissa. The short eats will get cold," he chided. There was only the half-awake manager to bow at then in greeting as they passed through the lobby and he decorously bowed back. They saw Plang seated at a wicker table, his head resting in one hand, eyes closed and face somewhat puckered with concern. "Looks like that dirge is getting to him too," Melissa said sarcastically. Apparently annoying to her, he found the chant of the procession helped deepen his mood. "You don't look like you're enjoying the Festival you got us up so early to enjoy," she snapped at Plang as they entered the bar. "Good day, dear friends. May your shadows never shrink." He rose from the table, smiling warmly and cheerfully stretched his arms out to then. Jason again noted how he enjoyed how the old man made the words sound all vowels. Plang explained, "No, it is not the Festival that is on his mind. That will be as it has always been, since First Times. No, it is Mr. Kwim-Mu Abernathy and his irregular NUB Party. As you must have understood from his talk with you last night," he looked at him seriously, "he is most suggestible. Unfortunately some of his associates do not maintain complete mental balance, if I explain myself." He added further explanation with a loose wiggle of his eyeballs as he shook his head from side to side. "Sometimes I feel quite frustrated and helpless. I fear that with the Fu- Ping turmoil outside and these Parties inside, between them they can cause more disruption than our little country can absorb. If it were not for your coming to open the way free for me, they might cause me some distress. Yes, I'm tired of all that. I am old, his life is complete. I am ready to go." He affectionately patted his arm. Jason remembered Mr. Abernathy's not so veiled threat to Plang and wondered if that was part of the old man's concerns too. M. Tussaud arrived with a wide, intent smile on his slight, Oriental face. He bowed slightly to the three of them "Yes," Plang exclaimed, reaching for his arm to check his watch. " M. Tussaud, prompt, as always," and went on to explain. "M. Tussaud is the Economic Advisor to the Court, the Royal C.P.A., you might say. He was also educated in France ," he told him. "Where was that?" Jason asked more out of politeness than curiosity. "I received my degree from the Sorbonne," he replied, "the E.S.P.P.C., Ecole Superieure de Preparation et Perfectionnement de Comptabilite. You might say I have a doctorate in bookkeeping." His French accent was impeccable, as was his manner. He had to keep myself from smiling at his odd elegance. Plang motioned and they rose to leave. Outside, ignoring the hisses and calls of the cycleshaw coolies to catch their attention, Plang escorted them to where a mini-taxi awaited them. Another joyride. Jason grimaced, remembering the terrifying street traffic the cycleshaw had navigated the evening before. The driver, burly for a local man, taking up more than half the seat, looked them over with the air of an cart driver going to sacrifice. Jason remembered a likeness if his face, the glittering slits of onyx eyes and smile of dark amber and gold, among the collection of devil-masks at the Palace the night before. The Wizard squeezed in next to the driver. The other three fit together in back of the tiny, hunch-roofed car with the intimacy of segments of a mandarin orange. Before the doors were barely shut, the driver sped off. The streets were otherwise hushed and empty but for the procession they passed time and again. "As I was explaining our political situation," Plang continued, so crammed in next to the driver he could barely turn his head to them, "after so many centuries of being cared for by everyone who could reach us, you will understand that we are almost unable to care for ourselves. To be independent we must borrow. "Now our King is a very singular personage. He has taken his B. Comm. at Cambridge and has had several western women as concubines. He adds great prestige to his traditional role as heir of First Times and liege of the Imagos. To gather merit he even has the Nation's greatest abstainers in his Court who keep the most ancient practices of penance and austerity. "And all the while he's tooling around finding amusement for himself," Melissa bantered, raising a sly eyebrow. "Yes, the King is many-faceted and an opportunist," the old man nodded with a grin. "He understands that his subjects need larger, more decorous bowls in which to take their daily rice. "Unfortunately, with all the King's tactful ways, it is impossible to avoid these politicians. Our people are naive and confuse price with value. N.U.B. to get their aims met, want the King to take aid from the People's Republic to the North. Whereas the F.L.A. the Foreword Looking Association, that M. Tussaud here supports, says that we must borrow only from your country. I have said to our King repeatedly that..." He stopped himself, then released a heavy sigh. "Ah but never mind what I say. Let the juggernaught's wheels turn. By your grace, Jason, I will soon be out of its way." Melissa pinched Jason's thigh that was firmly tight against her own. She fixed him with an I told you so stare from the corner of her eye. "See, N.U.B.'s with Them," she hissed into his ear in sinister tones. "And probably so is he." She glared and angrily nodded at the back of Plang's head. "The problem is..." Plang managed to twist around to show a weak, apologetic smile, "that the N.U.B. often chooses times of public gatherings to try to further their cause. They say they only want to make demonstrations. The newspapers calls it riot. And today, of course, is most special." Jason guessed that was why Mr. Abernathy was anxious to talk with him last night. He wondered if he'd accepted Mr. Abernathy's suggestions, something unpleasant might have been averted today. The taxi skidded around a corner and screeched to a stop beside the chanting procession. The engine sputtered, then expired. "It would be good to watch from here," Plang informed them. "The procession will take this way around the city. This circumambulation of the city prepares the way. Then we go to the Navel Temple to hear the Call itself." They waited, watching the road a few feet away filling with a torrent of humanity. Men, women and children, all dressed in similar white pajamas, walking, crawling, some making their way in prostrations and pious gyrations, rolling and twisting along the dusty dirt road. All movements were in flow with the chant's pulsating rhythm, now a tangible vibration in his chest. Their expressions were somber, but quietly aglow with some inner fervor. As the flow of penitents narrowed to a trickle, M. Tussaud assumed the lead. At his direction, they extricated ourselves from the four-wheeled tin dungeon, he felt indentations in his flesh of Melissa's right breast and hipbone and, in his other side, the door handle. The road before them lay at the city's edge, occasional huts of stone, clay and thatch out amidst the open farmland beyond. Both sides of the way were lined with spectators two and three deep. They also all wore the neat, white pajama outfit. M. Tussaud led them to a small scalloped awning of faded blue canvas at the roadside. It was outfitted with four folding chairs. At theirs approach, the nearby bystanders gave the old man the customary bow. "Does Balangpur really have a navy?" Melissa asked with a self- apologetic grin. The three others turned to her, with varying expressions in reaction to trying to fathom her question. "You just said all these people would go to the Navy Center." she explained. He thought she must be having her fun with them now. Plang frowned, then grinned with sudden understanding. He raised the long shirt of his pajama-like outfit to reveal his smooth buddha-round paunch. He inserted his forefinger into his bellybutton. "The place where the Temple stands is believed to be the world's navel, as we say it." The Wizard explained with slow good humor. M. Tussaud's grin broke beyond bounds to reveal his pearl-like, babyish teeth in long gales of laughter. "With all his intellect and learning, he has a very sweetly innocent sense of humor," the Wizard explained. He gave M. Tussaud a look of fondness and patted his back to help him catch his breath. When he calmed down, Plang turned his attention back to them. The river of penitents trickled out leaving the street clear. There was a strong sense of expectancy in the watchers lining the street. "Last night's portrayal of the Imagos and the Call was idealized, aesthetic," Plang explained. "Today's is popular, shaped by the needs and realities of people's day-to-day lives. I do not apologize for this. It expresses that same reality. I say this merely as preparation for M. Tussaud's kind illuminations. "Come, M. Tussaud," he humorously coaxed, "reveal this other side of the Imagos and their powers to our friends." M. Tussaud nodded with his acquesing smile and said, "In popular belief, each Imago embodies and is responsible for the gifts and curses one experiences in their realm. During this Festival, in order to bring all this into balance between the Imagos and the people, the ritual objects that represent them are displayed. In this way the people are touched with their presence and can express themselves directly. Every other sacred image, power symbol and statues of the home guardians are also carried around the city to share with all the worshippers. This is all preparation, you see, so that all the realms are in accord to empower the Pushu for his Call, as it benefits all realms. "Ah, you hear the rumbling? See who is coming!" The sounds of heavy wooden wheels thumped along the cobbled road towards them. "It is Meriflur," M. Tussaud said with excited nods to Plang in affirmation. A crudely made cart of tattered wooden slats rumbled into view. Between its chest-high creaking wheels was cargoed a rough wooden cube without opening or entry, perhaps twenty feet square. Jason had expected some image in the form of a statue or picture to represent an Imago. Instead, the entire outer surfaces were covered in rows of hand-sized porticos, top to bottom. Inside these were little carved and brightly painted figures. Now Jason could see, behind the black curtains hanging round the cart's base, that its power of locomotion was men, stripped but for loincloths. They were bent and burdened by yokes fixed to the under frame. There were fifty or sixty of them, locked in sweaty effort, straining to keep the mammoth construction in motion. "She is Meriflur," M. Tussaud repeated, eyes wide, hands fluttering towards the approaching cart. "Some call it Terrible Mother, but ancient sources call her the Dark Womb. That is within, no. This we cannot see. What is apparent that springs forth from the hidden Womb are the Six Realms. Each face of the cube is one of these, and the figures demonstrate the life and creatures of that Realm. On top, the gods. Round the sides, the Realms of angels and high spirits, men, animals. Underneath, the demons and hungry ghosts. Meriflur gives birth to them all. "She is the Eternal Female. To some she is the Beloved. To others she is the Temptress and the Dark Woman of the Soul. She is petitioned for an easy birth and cursed for difficult ones. She brings the summer pox that kills many. When anyone gets stomach pain, loss of appetite or diarrhea, she is to blame of course. Afflictions of the womb we attribute to her displeasure. The offering she claims is simply a black rooster or white pig." His tone revealed an astute, somewhat mischievous mind. His manner gave no indication of how seriously or not he took what he shared. While his voice played little melodies, his gentle face, unadorned of hair as an egg, was held with pursed lips and eyes widened in interest. As the cart passed, the crowds to both sides showered it with every imaginable call and gesture. Some clapped and hollered with obvious joy. Other people cried and moaned. Some shouted, shook their fists and threw stones and rotten fruit at the cart. Evidently everyone had been strongly effected by Meriflur during the year. Catching Melissa's and his astonished expressions as they watched this, M. Tussaud nodded and explained, "Every year, during this Hot-Wet season, things are at their worst. The Pox often worsens and it is still before harvest so the food supply is low. These can be difficult times, you know. "If there has been less illness that year and healthy children and animals born, then Meriflur is bathed and perfumed. And if the land is weak and the crops bad, then Fars might be abused and covered with excrement. Just so, each Imago is treated according to what they deserve. If an Imago has brought blessings, there is thankfulness and offerings. If the opposite is so, then there is anger, scolding, abuse. The people believe the Imagos can be affected in this way. They can be made to attend to one's personal needs or disappointments. That they can be induced to cure, to enrich, to somehow benefit. The worship is obviously more about the Imago's supernatural powers and capacities than its sacredness. Also it can be difficult day our for our honored Plang Mengli," M. Tussaud jokingly wagged a warming finger at the old man. "As the Royal Wizard he chooses the exact day for the Celebration. Everyone expects that things will all turn better after The Day of Call. And you know how people can be when they don't get what they want," he tittered. Another wagon that looked like a Neolithic hay-cart now approached and passed before them. Its surfaces and railings revealed marks left by the crudest of tools. It was dragged along by two docile mules, and on top of it were two almost man-sized oval stones lashed together with leather thongs. There was something whimsical in their Laurel and Hardy proportions. Plang answered his quizzical, amused look, "Those are the Two Companions, you remember from last night," he good natured coaxed. "Turo and Fars !" "They are the pranksters among the Shining Ones," M. Tussaud went on to explain with his usual cheerfully instructive tone. "They bring much lightness and laughter into our lives, special awareness and enjoyments." "Yet, in their playfulness, they can send hot, dry winds that burn the rice in the fields, cause our children to be absent-minded and not do their chores or wander off. The Twins, when they fight and are not in accord, can bring about the strange maladies where body and mind are not together in a person. You call it madness. We say, the Twins' Discord. Mostly it is near full-moon when they are dangerous. They do not require animal sacrifices but simply an offering of dried fruit and unpolished paddy rice." Around them peoples' connections with these Imagos was evident. Some called out as they passed, complaints or petitions. Several people walked along side with their hands on the cart for a while. There was some laughter and joking as it passed. By some they were showered with grain like newlyweds. In general a far calmer response then the extreme reactions shown Meriflur. Jason enjoyed all the exotic drama and excitement. And he was irked to see Melissa so isolated in her petulant trance, her eyes and expression distracted and glazed. The clatter of metal wheels now approaching down the cobbled road caught his attention. Plang wiggled his head and eyebrows at M. Tussaud as encouragement to explain, who responded with a modest nod. "Ah, this is the Pushu himself coming. In my studies," M. Tussaud confessed with a note of shame, "this is the most difficult Imago for me to understand. Although the Pushu was a boyhood friend of the Companions and a lover to Meriflur, after he answers his Call beyond the Spiral, he becomes a very different kind of person beyond even their imagining. He is transformed. The term Pushu also means an offering, a sacrifice. Because of his Call to seek the Two-edged Truth, you understand, back to First Times with the Imagos." "And he merges with his Other through the Jewel of Paradox," the Wizard prompted. "Yes, yes," M. Tussaud affirmed. "He comes to that Ceremony as an offering. The Pushu thus become a Luminous One," M. Tussaud continued, "but to do so, he must first die to his mother's son self. It is a knowing sacrifice, a willing sacramental wounding to become the Bearer of the Two-edged Gift, his own terrible truth. "Our custom has hallowed the choosing of a man from the animal- skinning caste to play the role of Pushu. A one eyed man is usually preferred. It is said, `If your eyes be not two, you can see both worlds as one. "The person divined and chosen by the priests to be Pushu is prepared for this in the year preceding the Festival. He is kept bathed, and ceremonies are done to keep him sane to bear that terrible gift. There is a special costume for him to wear, his hair grows long and his diet is restricted to the five forbidden foods. Because he will carry the honor and onus of the Call, he is allowed great freedom during his year of preparation." M. Tussaud fairly sang his pleasure at this. "Like a god, he goes from one side of the country to the other and what he likes, he simply asks for, favors, fees, gifts in kind. Sometimes, ohh..." His eyelashes fluttered above his high cheekbones, timid to say more. The heavy thump and clank of the cart approached. Plang motioned them to the road's edge. At the cart's appearance, people lining the road moaned in fearful respect for this Pushu. Such terrible power and destiny was his. It was a flatbed cart of massive beams, the oldest functioning object I'd ever seen. The wheels were cross cuts of a single tree trunk, girded with ancient iron straps. The body of the cart was so weathered and worn it looked more like nature's handiwork than man's. A horde of men tugged at several long leather braces extending from the front, although, in comparison with Meriflur's wagon, there was not much weight to move. On top of the flatbed, nearly as much a relic as the cart itself, was a large copper caldron. It was large enough to reach the bare chested armpits of the man standing in it. Definitely one-eyed, his other eyelid was tucked into the empty socket. He was in a wild state and made menacing grimaces and gestures to encourage the crowds to give him a proper show of respect. Adding to the general din of the moans and shouts greeting him, he made great whacking thumps at the copper pot with the donkey's tail he carried. He was the perfect picture of pompous self-satisfaction. I wondered if any of his caste purposefully took out an eye to have a chance at the role. Only as he caught sight of the Wizard did he temporarily drop his antics and give the customary bow. "Is this all he has to do in exchange for a year of high living?" Melissa seemed to have caught that part of the story, at least. "He has more to endure, we will see. At the Temple." Plang winked at Melissa, pointing to his belly button. "Then, after the Festival, he is transported by the Imagos to the Valley in order to fulfill his Call. "The Wizard looked at Jason and told him, "You are Pushu to me. I assure you." Jason heard rather than felt his teeth chatter. With that comment Plang plunged through Jason's calm to deliver a most devastating Two-edged Gift of his own. Jason realized that he was called, not only to deliver the Wizard from the realm of Yi Yu, but also to make an offering of himself. M. Tussaud sensed his anxiety. "There is one more thing you must observe before the Ceremony of the Call. The Tree, too, is a sacred Imago," he suggested with an apparent intention to distract him. "It is not a far walk, and an interesting one." "Yes, certainly. The Tree of Life is most certainly worth seeing." Plang nodded his encouragement. Melissa declined and smiled a sullen expression to Jason to say that he could play the fool, if he wanted to, but she had already had enough, thank you. "Yes, you go along, dear," she told him through tight lips. "I'm sure that Tree will be very amusing for you." Jason relished the chance to talk with M. Tussaud privately to get more information about the Wizard, to learn more about his Enlightour. The more information he had, the more comfortable he'd feel. He felt as if new nerves were being bared by this pageant activating his own terrible truths and mythology. And it seemed that the more he was opened to things, the more Melissa became an irritant. Just being around her now rankled. He needed to get away. A walk sounded good. She waved good-bye, mocking sweetness, as he followed M. Tussaud under the back flap of theirs pavilion. Then they swam through the scalding sunlight, pressing through the procession-transfixed people waiting in deep rows along the road. The sudden shift from shade to sunlight triggered recall of last night's dream. The reverie of leaping back and forth from realm to realm, air to water and back again. Weaving between worlds, all that he'd been seeing and hearing tuned him towards some deeper purpose. Some glimmer of knowing came to him, some seed of decision. As his grasp of this mythology strengthened, his own inner cosmology found expression in it. As they walked, he felt fully in his body and savored his aliveness. Wearylessly instructive, M. Tussaud informed him, "The Tree of Life, you comprehend, is what connects all the realms. It was on this Tree that the Shining Ones ascended and descended to and from the Valley. "The worlds are its fruits. Its roots burrow into First Times, and the scent of its blossoms is the Perfume of Immortality, our song has it." He continued to speak in his gentle, pedantic manner as he guided Jason through one warren of buildings after another. They went by way of covered garden courtyards and interconnecting walkways, out of the sun's brutal weight. The construction was all much the same sun-dried bricks, straw thatched roof at such a pitch they looked ready to slip, faced with plain house-fronts with little windows and low doorways. The buckling ancient walls beneath the skewed roofs gave an aura of suspended, timeless dissolution. Jason soon felt they had passed through the same loop of scenery again and again. Everywhere there were shrines, stupas, and votive niches with a small image or painting and often an oil lamp burned. M. Tussaud indicated and expounded on each, explaining that in addition to the Imagos, there were spirit powers for each sub-caste and occupation, even for certain families and areas. "As I indicated, many of us have a favorite of the First Times, a personally chosen Imago, the bearer of one's own Terrible Truth. Mine is Turo, who is also called the Source of Pure Wisdom." He grinned with shy modesty. "Turo is the celestial mathematician who laid out the heavens and paths for the stars. Mr. Kwim-Mu Abernathy, who you encountered last night, is a devotee of Fars, also designated as the Earth Breaker. He was the one who first showed us the use of fire and how to farm. You could say he is the patron-god of getting things done, of organizing." He touched on Mr. Abernathy's favorite word with delicacy. "I am sure that if you stay some time with us, you too will find your chosen Imago. When your way is open and you have more knowledge of the Powers..." The aim of his conjecture was unclear to him, but he sounded willing to see him around for a while. "Well, I can understand your and Mr. Abernathy's relationship with your Imagos. But I'm damned if I get what Plang's relationship is with the Dreamer," Jason inquired. M. Tussaud paused, the first change in his neat, metronome-like pace since they started. His forehead rose high in disbelief and his eyes disappeared into little tucks, sealed in wonderment. Nothing was left but his bare, blank head. Then his features snapped back into place in a smile of comprehension. "You are asking if they are different people. No, no. It is not so. There has been only the one." He smiled, as if everything had been clearly explained. Jason remained bewildered. "Are you saying that whoever becomes the court Wizard is the same as the Dreamer? Or do you mean that the old man we were just sitting with..?" "Yes. Oh, yes, of course..." he explained as if talking to someone who was a little naive, or perhaps simple. "The Wizard is always the Dreamer. Let me illustrate further," he continued. "You have seen the markings on his hands and face?" Jason had noticed a faint pattern of swirls in Plang's skin but he thought it was a skein of age wrinkles and sagging. "They are the marks of a ritual scarification that our Kingdom's records show were used by the Mengli, a clan of hill-tribes of the eastern mountains. They used it to set apart their medicine-men, their shaman, so to say. The chronicles show that the Mengli people perished under the spears of a Mongolian warlord who admired their horses. That was at least three centuries ago, and that pattern has not been used since. "Your quizzical look and confusion is understandable," he assured Jason. "But such is the case. He will not deny it. For us others, our relation with our Imago is somewhat metaphorical. For Plang, it is his very True Self." He smiled and shrugged. "It is beyond explaining. But they are one and the same." "Are you saying that, in some way, that old man we were just sitting with is the same person who announced the Call in First Times." Maybe all his features also disappeared with disbelief. M. Tussaud grinned and nodded, pleased that everything had been perfectly settled. For Jasom, the questioning had gone even deeper. He looked for reassurance was offered more bafflement. "He called you his Pushu, so you will soon know all the rest." Jason had already known the Imago of the Pushu was his. As his namesake was a seeker of the Golden Fleece, he realized that he was also a seeker of the Two-edged Gift. "So, what really happens to the Pushu next?" It felt important to know. "It's not for others to witness, but I believe he's escorted through the high mountain passes and taken into the wilderness on the borders with Fu-Ping. Sometimes they survive the dangers and demons there and come back. But mostly not. Especially if he wanders across the border, now with the bombs and such." That gave Jason something to bite and chew on. M. Tussaud resumed his brisk pace, guiding them through tunnels, over bridges and around walls, while He continued to inform. He was disappointed that he wasn't going to get more solid information about Plang from his astute companion, nothing he could comfortably risk his life on, but his patter was pleasant in itself. "The Tree of Life is the very supporting spine of the cosmos. Rooted in the dark of matter, crowned with the light of the heavenlies, the Spiral itself radiates from it. By means of ascending up into its branches, one gathers the fruits of its wisdom and draws all the shards of light in the world into a single beam. The Tree embodies the Source and Unity of all and joins human nature with the Great Nature.
Here is the matrix the Alchemist uses to hold and interact powers and possibilities of the most disparate natures. This pivot point, both myth and reality, is center for many worlds.
"You should know, too, that because the Tree has such great significance, it has great worldly power. The real key to the royal lineage depends on who has possession of it. Historically, our many invaders have taken advantage of this belief to fight their ways here simply to capture it. They would thus control the King, the people would surrender and a new regime would begin. Literally, whoever has the Tree of Life has everything." He shared these observations with his nude face beaming. "It is because of the Tree that Balangpur is the Navel of the World." M. Tussaud led them through a particularly long and tunnel-like passageway then out onto a large dirt courtyard surrounded by a tall circular wall, broken only by the openings of several other passageways. At the center of the courtyard was a large, whitewashed, onion-shaped dome some thirty feet high, rising above the surrounding wall. Beyond the wall was an ornately sculpted tower. "The Tree," he announced grandly, indicating the dome. Its lower two- thirds was open, set round with heavy, vertical metal bars. At first it was too shadowy in the bright sunlight for him to make out what was inside, but the sense of presence was immediate. "In our Wisdom Books it is told that in First Times the people came from all corners of the world to pay homage to the Tree, to make offerings to it as the support of the Three Worlds." Jason pointed to a tower rising tall beyond the wall. "And that?" he asked. "That is the Temple of the Navel," he told him as if it were obvious. "The Temple complex was built near the Tree in ancient days. In our King's grandfather's time, the dome was built around the Tree itself, because of political intrigues." He shrugged with worldly disdain. Something didn't connect for Jason. Here was the Tree of Life that is considered the mystic Center of the Universe. And there was the Temple of the Navel, another Center. Why were they separated by that wall, isolated, virtually inaccessible to each other? "Why aren't the Tree and the Temple together, or at least connected?" Jason asked M. Tussaud. "The Wizard explains it so. The Tree is the mystical Center of the Cosmos. The Temple is the physical, man-made Center. In the this realm of space and time, he claims, they can never be together, not even by accident. Only in First Times are they identical. As they came closer to the dome, Jason could make out the shape within. A huge tree indeed, but flayed bare of bark, twigs and branches, dark and shiny with ancient oils. In a dungeon, dead and mummified. As if to flaunt its captivity, massive chains were bound round and round it, its surface punctured by huge, handmade nails to keep the chains in place. He felt pity, as though it were a poor tormented beast. "Very holy, very venerated, you see," M. Tussaud confided. "So this is what unites the worlds," Jason broke out laughing. "Looks like they got even with it. Honored to death." M. Tussaud permitted himself a grin. Walking back through the maze of courtyards, corridors, patios, and passageways, retracing their twisting way back through the deserted sectors, M. Tussaud continued edifying him. "It is the Wizard's metaphysics that I find most intriguing, the most gratifying. It requires perseverance to follow his ideas, but I might humbly say that... No, M. Tussaud, Jason thought. My thirst for your brand of madness has been nicely quenched for the moment. Maybe next go-round we'll hear some more. So he firmly interrupted. " M. Tussaud, I'm less interested in his metaphysics than I am in his methodology. I mean, what happens on this Enlightour? What does he do?" Frustrated at making his point, he tried keeping his expression more grin than grimace as he tied to coax him down from the abstract to deal with details. "For example, it he were to take this Enlightour of his, uh... what would be involved?" He made a circle of his thumb and index finger in the sign of holding a coin, and raised a questioning eyebrow as to cost. "No, I mean, like, how long would it take? Would there be any preparations? Any dangers? You know, that kind of thing." I was trying to get him to help me make things concrete." "Ohhh. I am sorry, I could not say," he explained with apologetic smiles and bows. "I have not experienced it because such is not my medium. But from all I've heard I could say that, if the opportunity is offered you, yes, by all means, do accept the experience. It would be unforgettable and unrepeatable, without doubt." So, there was nothing more to say. Jason's curiosity and frustration weren't quenched but least he'd been reassured about the Enlightour again. They kept silent back through the network of buildings and courtyards till they reemerged onto the dirt road and went to rejoin the others under the blue awning.
Click on the chapters from the list on top left. Copyright Nathaniel Schwartz 2010 |
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