THE JEWEL OF PARADOX
A Visionary Spy Story by Gill Schwartz

Chapter Twelve

To activate this new series of Procedures, I must again uses the
moistening of SOLUTIO or SOAKING. But now it is part of a larger
Process and is used to different purpose. While the Prima Materia was in
its raw and crude form, I used to solvents dissolve it into a
state of flux, so that its Elements were freed and prepared to connect in
new ways. Now this Procedure is used as one pole in an oscillation
between opposites. At the other pole is form giving COAGULA
This takes the Prima Materia through repeated cycles of between
complementary, mutually exclusive forms -such as liquid and solid,
vapor and condensate, flux and gel, physical and spiritual. Through this
it becomes more malleable, more open to being drawn back
and forth in all the needful ways without harm. This will enhance its
stability regardless of form. It opens the Prima Materia to deeper,
fuller work.

I call this pair of interacting, complimentary Procedures:

SOLUTIO and COAGULA
(DISSOLVE and CONCRETIZE)

Lost in efforts to bring order to my flustered thoughts, I hear a woman's voice
inside the hut. The sound shatters not only these efforts but my last holds on
sanity as well.
"So, your Dreamed One has arrived, Granddaddy. Fars is coming to play the
Ceremonial Shell of Welcome. And food will be warm soon."
The old man bows under the low doorway into the hut, and drags me in after
him. Now, in the dimly flickering light, I see the woman whose voice I've
already recognized. My last shreds of comprehension shatter as I stare wide-
eyed at her. Impossible! No way for this to happen, for her to be here,
costumed, filthy and in cahoots with these others. I'm trapped in a tight, dark
place that tells me this is the madness I feared.
Again, my knees buckle with shock, sick with nausea. Rife body odors
merge with the almondy scent of many burning tapirs and the fire's crude
smoke. Again, I sink to the rough dirt floor. Without ado, the old man join me
in my descent, and both of us end up seated with our backs to the wall. He starts
talking again, but to me it is only a murmur in the background of the roar inside
my own being.
The woman looks up for a moment from stirring an earthenware pot
suspended over the fire. She smiles, nods a easy welcome, but gives no sign of
familiarity. No self-consciousness or recognition touches her features. She
bends back over the pot to serve into crude earthenware bowls. It is Melissa but
looking and moving as if gentled with timid kindness, or some deep sorrow. No
way I've ever seen her before.
Terrible foreboding and reality click into one.
Her eyes seem different than before too, larger and sloping. Tiny triangles of
shadow at the inside corners that even the dancing firelight doesn't touch. She
is as filthy and unkempt and wears much the same shreds of costume as the
others. As she moves, it reveals her firm, full breasts and the smooth flexing of
her waist. A woman now somehow pleasingly unfamiliar.
"My granddaughter, Meriflur," the old man says affectionately. But it is
Melissa.
"See, Meriflur, "he tells her loudly, boisterously. "See, that one I Dreamed
for has come."
She looks up from her task to smile and nod in agreement.
"She helps me with some little things," he leans towards me confidently.
"But mainly I keep her near to remind me that, old and ugly as I am, I once was
attractive enough to hold her young grandmother's attention long enough to
plant my seeds." He chuckles and smirks.
Its weird, disarming to have Plang Mengli seated next to me near-naked in
his shawl and skirt. Without the flowing robes he often wore, he looks soft and
bloated, like a pyramid of mushy chocolate ice-cream. Rolls of loose fat
cascade down from under his shawl, over his chest and belly. It rests on his
legs, one folded over the other, as usual.
"We are glad you have finally come," he tells me with warmth. "It has been
many nights that I dreamed for you. I knew it was time now. I told you all,
didn't I?" he bobs his head with self-satisfaction. "It's not easy to call someone
through dreams. But you are proof that I can do it," he assures me.
"How long has it been, Meriflur," he calls with loud affectation, obviously
warming up for some praise.
"When the moon was last full," she answers in a sweet voice.
I gape from one to the other, my thoughts bouncing about like empty barrels
on the deck of a storm tossed ship. There was a full-moon the night Melissa and
I flew from New York for Balangpur. How long ago had that been? Three
weeks?,...seven? I'm struck mute with kaleidoscoping feelings. Bewilderment.
Betrayal. Fear for my sanity, maybe my life.
"Yes, that's it, the last full-moon," the old man agrees, eager to continue with
his story. "Anyway, a long time. So, when you didn't come, I thought I might
have to go up there to help you find the way. And for an old man, such trips can
be a danger, a long climb up the Tree," he cackles. "The spirit might say, no
more of this paining, tired body for me. Just let it lie and don't go back to it.
Quite a shock to the body when the breath doesn't come back." He pauses to
chuckle and savor his wit.
Rankled by his childish, boasting tone, the trials and uncertainties of this
day, the need this whole thing twists in me, I blurt out to the only one I think
might hear me, "M. Tussaud, we were all together a few days ago at the King's
Reception Feast. Can't you remember?"
"His name is Turo," the old man says pointedly, raising a hand in caution.
"Turo. He is the one who met you and brought you to me. I am the Dreamer of
the Valley since First Times. She is Meriflur, my granddaughter," he repeats
with a patience. "It was much to bring you. And I understand that passing over
is much work for you too. Until you are truly here, it may seem dark to light,
down to up and ice to fire from what you knew before. It will come right,
though. For now, eat for your body, then sleep for your soul. Sunrise will surely
bring more ease to you.
"Its only granddaddy's way to speak as if he ran the universe and everyone's
lives in it. But he is a wonderful Dreamer," the woman adds, smiling dearly at
the old man. "The food is almost hot," she tells us, appearing pleased to be
caring for us. She comes around the fire, carrying earthenware plates piled
high with a steaming mush. Patiently, she stands waiting while Plang goes on,
listening to the talk with a smile of private pleasure.
"And there are other important thing I must do in my Dreamer work. Many
things. Things to help the people of the Valley. Sometimes special work that
I'm given from up there."
He raises his eyebrows dramatically. "Some things are so incredible, even I
don't understand them." He looks at me with odd humor for a moment. "But
come, let's take our Night Feast. We can talk of these things later"
He nods to the woman. She bends before us with a filled bowl in each hand
and says, "I offer this flesh of the earth, earned with long labor and given with
love. May you prosper of it."
She carefully sets the bowls on the ground before us without raising her
eyes. But for an instant, when her head is next to mine, I whisper,
incredulously, "Melissa?.. Melissa?.." and take in the dark, felinish scent she
gives off. The look she returns is of simple curiosity, and brief.
Between us, she places a bowl of cold paste, perhaps some root, two crude
clay cups and a long necked pitcher from which she pours an amber, herbal tea.
Overwhelmed by hunger, not having eaten all day, perhaps longer, I'm already
on my third mouthful of mush before I realize I'm just scooping it up with my
hand like the old man. Its a millet-like grain, highly spiced with chili and tiny
purple flowers that taste of onion. Its slippery texture gives evidence that the
food is days old. I have little chance to take much of the root preparation
before, in the light of the sputtering tapirs, I watch the Dreamer stir the bowl
with a long-nailed, filthy finger to taste it, leaving a darkened swirl behind.
"Oh, good, Meriflur," the old man comments, "you let it ripen just right."

She brings another bowl and sits against the wall at some distance to eat,
gazing at us with soft timidity, quick to rise when a cup needs refilling.
"This is not simply the Night Feast, you see," Plang starts explaining
between mouthfuls. "It is a re-creation of the Feast on the First Night when..."
Turning inward, I cocoon myself in silent, numb distance. The others dip
from bowl to bowl, gossiping and scratching, at ease with my dumb immobility.
When they've finished, she goes to the jumbled mound of things in a corner and
brings back a large smoothly spiraled "conch de mer" seashell, holding it out
towards the old man.
"Oh, yes, that must be. Give the Shell to Fars to sound. That will let all the
Owl People know that the New Born has arrived," he exclaims, as if it had been
his idea.
She glances at me. Her serious, attentive look while listening to the old man
gives way to a gentle smile, soft with glad affection. Still, absolutely no self-
consciousness or trace of our familiarity. The smile itself is one I wouldn't
associate with the Melissa I knew.
She rises again from her place by the fire and goes to the other far corner.
She whispers, "Fars, Fars, it is time for the Sounding." What I'd thought to be
another pile of miscellaneous things in another corner takes human shape and
extends two arms to receive the Shell she offers.
Not masked by his tailored three-piece suit and thick spectacles, his hairy
ape body and tight, squinting eyes look completely animal. The hands he
received the Shell in are thickened and splayed like an ape's. But it is
unquestionably Mr. Kwim-Mu Abernathy. He takes the Shell and gingerly sets
the smaller end to his lips.
Contrary to the shattering blast I'd expected, the melody he creates is deeply
evocative, as if I'm hearing that chant again from the Temple, a multitude of
voices rolling and resonating with each other until his single note of harmony
grows out of it. I glance at Kwim-Mu Abernathy to make sure all this comes
from him. His cheeks and neck are puffed with the effort, his eyes closed, his
face rapt and beaming. He finishes the long, soaring call, the many leveled
exaltation, with shorter and shorter soundings, till its becomes a steady stream
of burstings.
There's more than just sound coming from the Shell, maybe a kind of sonic
force that washes through my flesh and bones, that completely stuns and
inundates my mind. As long as it sounds, there are no thoughts to mar my
attention. Looking into the Shell's open end, at the ivory-like mottled pink
spiraling down to the center, I see the earth's vagina, its mysterious music's
means of coming and going.
"I see our Shell Ceremony has impressed you," the old man smiles
confidently. "It is one of our ways into First Times and was given to us then.
We use its voice to call at these sacred times. It will sound again when I climb
the Tree, when I ascend to the highest heavens. It awakens the Snake that
surrounds the Valley's rim, the Serpent of Time. Even so, even so," he mutters
to himself, nodding, "all the powers must be awakened."
While he talks, Melissa takes the Shell from Kwim-Mu Abernathy and
places it back on the pile in the corner. He shambles by us on his way to the
doorway, without giving us a glance and bows out.
Rather than to try to cope with another bewilderment that I'm certain is
momentarily beyond me, I accept the old man's obvious baiting me into
conversation.
"What's this about your climbing a Tree. "Is that the Tree you mean in the
middle of the pit? That looks like it might be a bit of a task for you."
"Oh, of course, you saw the Tree. But to really see the Tree," he begins
rhapsodizing. I feel he's delivered this pitch some number or times before, "for
that you must be well prepared. Vision is desired by many, granted to few."
He smiles benignly. "What you are able to perceive just now is only the
shadow of all Realms. And our Tree is the very Center that connects the
heavens, the Valley, and... uh, that place outside that you come from. How
majestic to be able to see the roots soar skywards far above the Valley's rim to
feed on the upper invisible waters, to watch the roots swell as this nectar
descends to us below. The Tree nourishes its fruit to ripeness for us to feed on.
In this way we obtain heavenly powers and endless life." He waves an
unconvincing hand around to indicate the bare and dusty confines of the crater.
As I'm listening, it seems he's taking quite a different approach than he was
in Balangpur. Maybe its preparation for some real teachings. Or maybe it's only
further involutions of this madness.
"But to see all that, of course," he continues with some condescension, "you
must be on a somewhat different level of... Well, you have only just arrived.
Those capacities perhaps will come. Body and mind must be purged and
cleansed of a whole lifetime of misconception and faulty experiencing. They
will end. All those concerns will be loosened till you are free and empty. Then
all the mysteries will be revealed to the eyes of your heart."
Such pretentious talk in the midst of such squalor and filth is a bit much to
take. I sharply answer, "Alright, I hear. But, so far, all I see is a lot of high
flown talk."
The woman and Plang laugh openly and good-naturedly. He rises with grunts
and groans amidst the laughter, and goes to a crudely woven sack leaning
against a wall. He returns with some dark bits of stuff he feeds to the fire with
little flourishes of the wrist. "It will be interesting for you to know too that I am
also the Keeper of the Central Fire. You must understand that is the very source
of life. Every evening all the old fires are extinguished, except for that one I
tend."
He waddles to a mound of things in another corner as he talks. "And every
sunrise a new fire is lit. Hmm.. yes, here are the sacred tools given us in the
First Times for making the sacred fire." He shows me what looks a crude, child-
size bow and spindle, in very bad repair. The string is loose and there's no tip
on the spindle for heat-creating friction. He squats back down beside me and
spends some minutes fiddling with the two objects. He twines the string around
the spindle, pressing one end of it against a piece of wood to spin like a drill as
he works the bow back and forth. Yes, I remember seeing a device like that at
Scouts. But, I remember more bits are needed. As if knowing what I'm about to
ask, he blurts, "Yes, well. Those other things, I keep in my own house. You see,
the Dream that goes with the Sacred Fire is that each morning, every time the
sun rise over the rim of the Valley, we are back in the First Times. And each
time I make that new fire, it is really that first fire, the Sacred Fire we are
receiving. And when I give them the fire in the morning, I bless it so that it will
stay alive till sleeping time that night. They must be fed, of course.
"And, of course, they must tell me their dreams in the morning."
Everybody tells you their dreams?"
"Of course. The Dreamer must have access to all dreams. And I help them
too. Sometimes we can finish a dream in a good way together. Sometimes there
is a doorway in it for them to journey through. But anyway, the Dreamer does
such things.
"And later tonight.., or maybe tomorrow," he nods a little warily, "you will
witness for yourself my ascending the Tree. It is another passage way between
the Upper Realms and this one."
No, but this is too much. No good trying to distract myself. This is not a
masquerade, but some kind of madness. Maybe mine, perhaps theirs. Plang's
role in all this makes some sense, but there's no way he could get Melissa into
this. Unless, somehow, for some insane reason, she was in on all this from the
beginning.
I interrupt. I'm certain that I can't take any more duress, terrified at my
vulnerability. "Now listen, you two, I'm just not up to it anymore of this.
Totally worn out. Just tell me what you're trying to get across." My voice cracks
with tension. "I'm sure we can come to an understanding without causing all
this upset." I stop, looking coldly down at my bowl, trembling with the
aloneness I feel, and the terrible defenselessness.
"Please Melissa... Plang... Talk to me. Tell me something that can I make
some sense out of."
The woman stops eating to listen attentively, softly nodding in rhythm with
my words. But the old man stubbornly keeps eating away, first from his bowl,
then from the bowl between us. "Yes," he says, in between mouthfuls, "you are
having some difficulties. But it is simply a matter of patience, and all this
confusion will come right of itself. Let loose, and you will see things as they
are soon enough. There's no better advice than that," he says with smug
roughness, "even if we were to talk till the New Day.
"But I will tell you one thing we can do. I will cast the Omens for you. You
will see all things are favorable and that all goes well. Then you can rest good
tonight for certain."
Not that one again. I remember the uproar it caused when he did that Omen-
casting in Balangpur. Back across the hut he waddles to the mound, licking his
fingers with contentment. Scattering oddments of cloth, wood, clay and bone all
about, he pokes in one part of the mound then another.
"Meriflur, have you moved my bag," he says in a blaming tone. "I'm sure
where I put it back last time I used it. I want to help him set his mind at ease,
don't you see," he scolds her.
"Won't either of you understand what I'm saying," I plead, feeling sicker and
weaker.
"Of course, of course. We understand exactly what you say," the old man
assures me over his shoulder. "After all, we are speaking the same language.
Meriflur! Help me find my Omen-bag.
"Forget it! Forget it. For God's sake. It's enough," I end up hollering.
They both turn sharply to face me and stare. "All is good then?" the old man
asks, as if he believes I've been satisfied. "Well, then, what about the gifts
you brought. The gifts," he says, quickly growing impatient like a child.
I have no defenses left. I try to anger, but find even that last support too
heavy. I sit catatonic, bound in futility.
"Come," the old man coaxes, his eyes carefully watching mine. "The gifts
must be in the bag. He indicates the small shoulder bag I've been mindlessly
carrying this whole day. "I'm sure you didn't forget them. The presents are so
important. Why don't you look in the bag," he croons hypnotically.
I put the backpack on my lap. I have no idea what's in it or what the old man
could possibly be expecting. I loosen back the metal ring that keeps the
drawstring tight and submissively put my hand inside it.
"My lighter..." I say in a flat empty voice, recognizing it by touch. And a
pack with a few cigarettes left. A kind gift for me?
"What does it do?" the woman asks quizzically, perhaps suspiciously,
looking at the lighter in my hand.
I numbly watch myself play the idiot. I exaggerate flipping back the lid and,
after a theatrical smile at them both, I strike a light. They gasp, the woman
louder than the old man.
"It makes fire!" she cries.
"Do it again," the old man orders, a tremor of excitement and awe in his
voice.
I do so. They gasp again, though now prepared.
There is a long moment's silence while they stare at each other, Plang's brow
deeply creased, "No. Not good," the old man exclaims strongly. "I am just
explaining to you that we have our fire, fire sacred to the Valley. And you come
with that thing that makes a new fire whenever your want. No, not a good gift,
you see. You can't have other fires than the fire of the Valley. You see, the fire
that we have is from the First Time, so that we..." he starts to explain again.
"Oh, never mind, granddaddy," the woman soothes, as a child might do with
an overwrought playmate. She comes over to sit next to us on the floor. "Show
us what else there is," she suggests, obviously trying to divert the old man.
I seek her eyes. No complicity there, pleasant interest, maybe some humor,
but nothing to reveal anything is happening except a playing out of the whimsy.
I'm beginning to feel that I really can't, with certainty, name her.
I reach into the bag again and remove a tiny pink plastic framed mirror with
a handle, like ones for a doll-house. I wonder at the purpose it serves.
As soon as he catches sight of the mirror, he snatches it from my hand. In a
flurry, he gazes into it for an instant, then blazes with anger. "How many of
these are there?.. How many?.. How many?.."he demands, his face dark with
blood.
"Wait a second, wait a second and I'll see." I nervously try to cajole him as I
rummage for others. What the hell is going on now is totally beyond me. When
I find the seventh mirror, I tell him, "That's the last of them." I smile grimly,
and turn the sack's opening for him to search into.
He doesn't move but demands, "Certain? Certain?"
"Yes," I swear, feeling around inside it again. "Yes, certain."
He rolls to his feet and lines all seven little mirrors in a row along a wall. He
stares at them with a bitter grimace then systematically smashes them with a
rock he dislodges from the wall. He coughs with satisfaction at the dust he has
raised. The woman smiles and nods, still pleasantly interested in all that's
happening. I simply look on, at my wit's end.
"Eyes, why are you bringing eyes into the Valley. First a different fire, now
eyes. We all have them. Do you want to cause confusion?" he rants, close to
tantrum. "You must not do such senseless things," he screeches, pushing his
face before mine, "unless I tell you to!"
"They weren't eyes," I whisper loudly, trying to free myself from the bizarre
madness..
"What do you mean. Did I not see eyes in that thing?"
"Yes. Yes, you probably did see eyes. But they were your own eyes. Your
eyes were seeing themselves, their reflection," I try to explain, feeling shamed
at being put through such inane antics.
"Do you mean those little round things are like water and gave back what
they see?" the woman asks, delighted and proud at catching on. I nod in answer,
grinning wanly.
"But,... but, they didn't spill. They broke," the old man whines in hurt
confusion, in defensive disbelief. "Is that all you brought?" he asks gruffly to
save face.
I retreat more and more to watch from a remote corner of my mind while my
hands fumble through the sack again. I push the near-empty cigarette pack
aside, making mental note that the lighter is safely in my Bush Jacket pocket
and find the last of the contents of the bag --three thumb sized, oblong paper
packets. I squeeze at one before taking it out, trying to guess its contents, as if
to protect myself from further abuse.
They give under pressure in a funny way I can't identify, firm yet somehow
fluid. The old man impatiently pulls one from my hand as I hold them out and
tears it apart. Red glass beads pour and bubble across the floor.
"Ahh. Another kind of colored water," he happily sighs. He gathers a hand-
puddle of beads from the floor, giggling, his face contorting with glee. "Good,
this is very good." he congratulates me, pouring a red, shiny stream into the
woman's hand. "Let's see the others, he says, jiggling with impatience.
He opens the next packet more carefully. When he sees the blue beads inside
it, his face drops into a worried frown. "What is this? What?" he asks and
carefully picks a bead out and holds it before his eyes as if it is a potentially
vile insect. "Useless, absolutely useless," he mutters, his voice sharp with
disgust. His eyes turn wide with disdain as he places the red beads back into the
packet. "Here, for you, my sweet-bird," he says, a smile fixed on his face, and
gives the packet to the woman. She accepts it with the same warm, open interest
with which she watched his tirade earlier.
The old man turns back to me, his face set to demand pleasure but guarded
for the worst. I hand him the last packet and watch as he slowly works it open.
My breath is caught in my throat until his face lifts into jubilation and his voice
into exuberant song. "Green, green, green," he sings, pouring the beads from
one hand to the other with undiminishing pleasure.
Then, suddenly alight with inspiration, he pours the green beads amidst the
red ones on the ground around his folded legs. His joy at the results is so
spontaneous and complete, I find myself joining his laughter. He groans and
breaks wind with effort as he gets to his feet. "Look. Look what has come to
me." he calls, hobbling out the doorway, hands brimming with his bi-colored
treasure. Other voices answer excitedly and draw near.
The woman says, "It was kind of you, very kind, to bring all those gifts. You
have pleased him very much." She smiles deeply into my eyes.
I watch, listen, expecting our aloneness to force her into weakening to reveal
some edge of the role she plays. But there's nothing I can discern. So, for now,
it's easier to give into the play-acting.
"Pleasing him sometimes seems a difficult thing to do," she adds with a
knowing smile and an accepting shrug.
I must get away. I must get by myself. Delirium, losing control feels just
breaths away. My voice sounds distant, alien, as I ask, "Would it be possible for
me to find some place to rest. I'm... I'm exhausted." It still only mid-evening,
though with no watch, I'm uncertain. The old man has mentioned other little
treats he has in store. An hour or so rest would help.
"Oh, please excuse our thoughtlessness," she apologizes with sympathy.
"Yes, and it is time enough for your Anointing too." She bows out of the hut.
Anointing; Cleansing, Extreme Unction.. Yes, if ever I were ready...
She returns a moment later with the old man in tow, still gloating over the
beads in his hands. "Everyone likes them. But mixed, of course. They are much
prettier mixed than separate," he tells me, plainly to show that only his mixing
them really made them interesting.
"Come. We will find a house for you. You are New Born to the Valley, so
you must have the Cleansing. Meriflur can do that for you. Then you can join
me for the Night Rituals. Those you will really want to take note of. It will help
your dreams." He beckons us to follow as he bows out of the hut's doorway.
He leads us through a cluster of people nearby who responded to his call to
admire the beads. Their costumes vary only insofar as the wearer had stretched,
stained or torn them. Their multiracial features are uniform only in their
griminess. I refuse to look at anyone closely. I couldn't take recognizing
someone else.
The pack of ubus are chittering in the distance. The night has turned much
cooler, and when the woman --Melissa, I keep thinking Melissa, but I dare not
say it-- starts to huddle to herself for warmth, I offer her my Bush-Jacket. With
surprise and timid gratitude she says, "I am used to these chilly nights from my
whole life. You are kind, but you must keep it on. Even now you shiver."
"Ah, hah," the old man clucks and blinks at me. "She has been watching the
ubu bitches at their sly games." He rubs his two forefingers, back and forth
against each other in a gesture I don't recognize, but can surmise. "But come
now, there will be plenty of time for that. First we will find you a house."
As we walk down the lane the last tints of sunset fade into darkness. A sliver
of new-moon appears in the sky, the dark of the old moon in its arms. People we
pass near their huts or inside beside their fires call out, "It is evening, Dreamer.
It is evening, Meriflur. Greetings to you, New Born one. It is evening." Some,
especially the few older men, raise their arms to me in greeting.
We walk down a twisting lane of low doorways facing each other and into
the next one. The old man stops in front of one hut. He appears to examine the
outside wall, the ragged door drape, then bows in to walk around inside while
we wait. He returns. "Now you, you go inside and study this house. Let me
know what your..., your impressions are."
I glance at him for a moment, trying to fathom his question. With no success.
I turn and bow into the hut. The smells are homogeneous with age, like a crypt.
An indefinable shrill vibration touches my nerves. I quickly turn and go out.
"No," I tell him. "I don't like it. I couldn't rest there."
The old man looks at the woman with interest. "Whose was this?" he asks.
She leans towards him and whispers, "This is where... You remember, that
accident with the ubu skins..."
"Yes, of course. I knew it was that place," he snaps.
"But there are others to see anyway."
He leads us on and stops at several other huts along both sides of the lane.
Somewhere in the process of examining them, he is dissatisfied with each and
leads us further on. Finally, we come to the last in the row built up against the
crater's wall. The old man repeats his appraisal and, apparently satisfied, hands
me a taper bids me enter and examine it.
Bowing low, almost to my knees for this one, I enter in with this gesture of
humility. The door-drape is especially filthy and ragged. About ten by ten, it's
dank smell engulfs me, like a coal mine, perhaps from being next to the wall.
She comes in after me and says with sweet innocence, "We thought this house
might suit you. Other special people have lived here." I look at the collection of
cobwebs and leprous stains across the roughhewn stone walls, the pile of
unidentifiable rags in a corner. The roof's thatching is so rotten in places I can
make out stars above. There is a pile of dried grass at one wall, my bed I guess
and some fuel in the fire-pit in the center of the hut. There seems nothing more
to do but stand there and shiver for some moments.
I bow back out to them tightly grinning so that my face feels like a chunk of
broken plaster. "Yes, this is a nice home. I like this one very much."

In the first dream I was home
in a cave of red-darkness.
A heartbeat not my own
clenched and unclenched about me.
After a timeless while
I was given leave to uncurl,
fell deeper into the next dream
and became more awake.

Wandering, I found three stars of blood
that marked the points
in which to build my mystery
of bliss and tragedy.
I played it through,
though never found its name.

Because the first two dreams were dreamt
in my soul, they were more secret deep.

"In the next dream now, I am awake.
I am blue and about to be shoutingly born,
should I decide to."

She comes to sit at my right side. Taking some more ash from the pot, she
rubs my right earlobe with some and whispers a number of phrases to herself.
Next my right thumb, with perhaps the same phrases. Then my right big toe.
She gives a full laugh of happy celebration, and hugs me fondly.
I nurtured, well looked after. Yet, as I hug and laugh with her, there still's a
part that just can't understand what's going on. There's just no matching these
ways with the Melissa I knew. And I expected a Cleansing, instead I'm
Anointed with dust.
At my laughing at myself, she asks, "I'm sorry. Am I touching funny places
in you?"
"No, dear Lady of the Valley. I'm just finding funny places in myself."
"Now you can wear the garments," she tells me happily. I smile and nod, but
I don't at all feel like uncurling. She stays by my side for some moments,
perhaps sensing that I'm so relaxed I can't find any muscles willing to respond.
It seems to have soothed my skin too -bug bitten, dirt gashed, sweat corroded
itching. Maybe that ash acts like counterirritant. And there's its cosmetic value.
Evenly distributed filth.
She says, "All right, rest some. Only, when the Shell sounds, Granddaddy
will want to see you there, by the Tree. Please."
My eyes stay closed as I hear her quietly leave. My mind is empty, waveless
for some while. Feeling so still. Nothing moving but the breath. Nothing wants
to move. Like all the plugs have been pulled. All the wires let slack. All of a
piece, body and soul, and I'm just flowing aliveness inside. I settle deeper and
deeper with each breath, into this lovely place she's left me in.
Slowly, I settle to the bottom of this sea, to the place of peace-filled
darkness and rest. After some breaths, I'm part of some vast eternal circulation
beyond questioning.
I hear her gather her things and leave.
So this is what I find at the end of the Yellow Brick Road. Maybe I should
have stayed in Kansas! My last thoughts.

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Copyright Nathaniel Schwartz 2010