The Storyteller and I parted ways some time ago; amicably it has to be said. Only a temporary situation you understand. We both relish our personal space and the time apart reinvigorates the spirit. We share the same corporeal form but encapsulate twin creative souls. Some writers adopt a pen name to create works in a different genre to their main output. It seems I’ve gained another Muse to perform that function. Her true name is yet to be revealed. This is deliberate, for a name is a thing of power and more so one’s true name. Only the Jackal God and the Storyteller are privy to such a secret. Her journey is my journey; we seek each other and meaning in the trials and tribulations of our chosen goal and path. We also seek them in the moments of stillness and joy. I invite her to partake of tea and conversation.
I should explain the Storyteller is a leading participant in my other blog Dispatches from the Hinterland. She’s a collector of stories and memories, performing the role of priestess, explorer and psychopomp. They’re roles I aspire to, one already adopted, as for the other two…Who knows? She waits for her name to be uttered, has waited for a long time, a presence gazing patiently at her future self. Did she think me into being rather than the other way round? A debatable point. I’m in the process of constructing, no, re-constructing myself. Such things are never easy, visions only glimpsed in shadows and dreams. Hope is strong but the will, a skittish creature, slow to trust but incredibly powerful. Twin souls, forever circling the central Sun of their being.
She stares at me, a reflection in a mirror, speaks of things only one who’s journeyed to the centre of their being would understand. Such baggage we carry, seeking redemption for mistakes that were never ours, holding false perceptions that bind as if chains. We must seek the light illuminating our darkness; darkness in itself doesn’t hold any notions of good or evil. Intent is everything she says. We don’t journey alone for the Jackal God is always watching, protecting, guiding. He’s the presence by our side when all seems lost, when our feet are filled with pain and unable to walk any further he carries us within a comforting embrace. He reminds us of what and who we are within the depths of our pathos. The Jackal God transmutes all that’s dead and decaying within ourselves, devouring what we offer up willingly. Black and Gold are his colours, death and resurrection.
I acknowledge the truth of what she says and she acknowledges my acceptance of her message. Hope and Will circling the central Sun of their being. The Storyteller starts out with a notion that’s nebulous, all she sees before her is a vast, sandy landscape. Filled with fearful things, phantoms, jinn, anything the imagination can conjure lives in those wastes. The ultimate goal of this journey is, finding herself and finally reuniting with the great Jackal God, denizen of the place between worlds. He inhabits the space between our conscious and subconscious. A place where gods and humans meet, where the ‘now’ and ‘to be’ become blurred. She says it’s time for me to reassess my own journey, time to reunite with the Opener, His Nibs, grasp his hand and walk forward. The story must continue, the journey must continue.
A lot to think about, a lot to do. She lifts her head and gazes at the figure standing on the top of a sand dune. He beckons and then turns away. So it begins, as does my work. The maps are here, all I have to do is read them and plan. That’s the hard part.