Flashback – Thursday photo prompt: Shelter #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

I wasn’t sure how to respond to Sue’s challenge for the Thursday Photo Prompt. Then, a familiar image kept flashing through my mind (hence Flashback eh?). Only one thing to do, go with my gut instinct:

The two figures stood in the field staring at the cave entrance. Both were convinced they saw a figure gesturing to them from its entrance. The report had stated there were several anomalies to the witness’s version of events, disturbing ones at that. The Unit had assigned the case to two operatives who were familiar with nuances of the issue, you could say it was a specialism they excelled in. Dusk was approaching slowly from the west, it seemed to be heavy with melancholy. Totally in keeping with the mood surrounding this strange incident.

The man and woman made their way quickly down the valley and set up their climbing equipment. They managed to make it to the top in time to see the Sun disappear in a spectacular fashion beneath the horizon. Both hesitated for a while in front of the cave entrance. The darkness inside invited reticence and the adoption of a state of contemplation. Ephemeral images bled through their minds and the sense of poignancy and sadness increased with each intake of breath.

“Something” was waiting for them. Being Empaths they were hypersensitive to energies and moods in the environment but were able to filter them out. Not this time. They felt a strong presence brush against the boundary of their minds. It was almost, respectful, rather hesitant. It whispered their names in a yearning tone. So, so familiar. “Mara, Adam. Be welcome.” Again and again the voice called out to them. They couldn’t wait any longer and steeped over the threshold.

The sense of a luminous presence was incredibly strong in the main chamber of the cave system. Their eyes adjusted to the dimness once the torches were lit. Then, the shadows unfolded, flickered like candlelight. A face emerged from the smoky light, achingly beautiful and powerful in its lines. The being’s eyes blazed like a million suns and his voice carried the sum of the Universe’s wisdom and mystery.

He reached out to them, initiating a series of intense flashbacks. They saw the Universe sleep the sleep of eternal darkness, of the Divine Essence surveying its handiwork, and of the plan to further humanity’s evolution. They saw their death and rebirth. These images poured through their eyes and gathered deep within the chalice of the Soul.

The Presence waited in silence and attended to their emotional needs. They stared at him in shock, the enormity of the knowledge offered rendering them speechless. No wonder the witness was in such a state when they found him.

The Presence commented voicelessly “he wasn’t ready.”

If he wasn’t ready, were they?


Journey Across The Sea: Part 2 Of The Living Vessel


ARTsbyXD, Pixabay

I think sufficient time has passed now for me to return to the tale of the Living Vessel, who was last seen in January of this year in View Across The Water: Part 1 Of The Living Vessel.

It’s been an interesting creative journey these past couple of years, filled with periods of drought and then thunderstorms that have “greened” the inner landscape. Certain posts have paralleled my own growth over time, and inner guidance has manifested in significant characters on the page. The man in this tale is one such being. He follows in the footsteps of numerous students of the Greater Mysteries, a journey that can take a lifetime to complete and results in profound transformations within the psyche.

We last saw him being taken across the sea to an island for instruction by a hermit, Merlin as he was known in that incarnation. Why is this student so special? He is a living vessel for divine and terrible forces, chosen by the gods of his land for this important task. An unprepared person could be torn apart by the magnitude of what they were carrying, not so in this case, but he still needs guidance and instruction. The saga continues:

The journey across to the little island is free of conversation as both men are deep in thought. The plaintive cry of birds slices through the silence, as does the sound of water against the paddle. This venture is about more than crossing water, it is also a crossing from the conscious mind through deeper waters of the subconscious. With each stroke of the paddle the man who is known as the Living Vessel slides deeper into a trance. He finally understands the nature of silence and the necessity of hearing with more than the ears. Images flash through his mind, of things seen and yet to be seen. What a burden his task is becoming he thinks.

“You think too much. There is far worse to come and as yet you are unable to distinguish with clarity. Let go of preconceptions, they will only blind you to the truth. That is, nothing is real until you believe it to be.”  The Hermit speaks in measured tones, yet, there is an underlying tinge of humour in that gravelly voice.

The younger man blinks in surprise and then stares ahead. The island doesn’t appear to be that far but this crossing is taking longer than expected. The Hermit smiles at the turmoil going on within his student. Arrogance is thankfully missing in this one, at least two of the previous recipients fell from grace in a terrible fashion. Their end was an unhappy and bloody one, mainly due to the misguided belief of being greater than their fellow human beings. The gods were not pleased, berating themselves for choosing so unwisely. Their mistakes were burned on funeral pyres far from the temple precincts as sacred lore dictated.

As for this recipient of the Vessel, the prophecy was going to be proved true, he felt it in his heart. He had watched over the infant through to his entry into adulthood, the signs were present and irrefutable. A lesser person would have been unable to contain the full power of the forces handed down by the gods. Indeed, many did not live beyond youth. That was the past, as for the present, the story is yet be written of this Living Vessel’s adventures.


ARTsbyXD, Pixabay

The island suddenly appears out of the sea mist and the two men make their way to the stone building at the other end of the island. It is eerily still and silent. It is as if the land is reserving judgement, observing this visitor to get their full measure. The Living Vessel has a name but their true name is hidden, for names have power and such power can be taken and manipulated. The younger man feels comfortable in this strange place, there appears to be neither threat nor fear present on the island. A good omen. The land undulates gently and hides many little gifts. He notices piles of pebbles gently balancing on a piece of driftwood, it captures the gaze and instils a sense of peace. The landscape unfolds in wonderful symmetry, grace and beauty. This is his first lesson.

The Hermit’s home is a plain building with lime-washed walls and large windows on four sides. The land surrounding is arranged into areas containing a herb garden, vegetables and flowers. The number of livestock is small, consisting of a few chickens, goats and pigs. It looks so normal on the surface. The Hermit stops to look at the younger man, his gaze is thorough. What he sees satisfies him. He opens the large wooden door giving access to his home. Shafts of light flood through the doorway and windows. The house consists of one large room, a living area which also serves as the kitchen. A mezzanine floor contains the sleeping quarters. The interior is simple and airy but potent with an abundance of light and sacredness.


kellepics, Pixabay

Their evening meal consists of bread, cheese and salad vegetables. To drink there is homemade blackberry mead, a special offering to the student on his safe arrival. The conversation continues into the night, revealing hidden aspects of their characters as trust builds. The time for sleep approaches and they retire to their simple cot beds. The Living Vessel enters a strange dream world, filled with silence heavy with expectation. The air is thick with incense. Quiet chanting echoes from all around him. He sees something hazy in the distance, it becomes clearer.

He recoils in shock as the Veiled One manifests before him. Her eyes are closed and remain so as she foretells of things yet to come. Her presence comes with a great sense of terror, for him at least. She is one of many primeval Creator Gods, one who issues from the depths of the Void when called upon to prophesy. He kneels in humility, if not in abject fear. This is his second lesson.


Ancient Song – Thursday photo prompt: Valley #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

My offering this week for Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt.

A sense of something greater than the reality of this world washed over the priestly figure gazing out to sea. For as long as memory had existed his brethren had stood at the head of the valley to pay homage to the Solar Logos. They gave thanks for another day of life, of light and warmth. Daily they praised the mystery hidden deep within the heart of the golden orb suspended in a sea of aquamarine.

Rhythmic chants echoed into infinity, flowed and then swelled, encapsulating the beauty of a moment captured briefly. The Order lived for the recounting of a song conveyed by the Eternal Parent, one to teach their children the ways of Love and Beauty, but not of the material plane. They had transcended such things in the pursuit of a higher philosophy. Their flesh and blood carried the history of the people, for this is how the stories of the tribes were saved for future generations. For this is how the ancient song was taught and preserved.

The sacred rite performed at sunrise was steeped in mystic lore, one that enjoyed an honourable and long-lived lineage. It was said that the harmonics of such a song were capable of creation and destruction; being the key to unlocking doors long-held forbidden to all except those who had passed severe tests. One such individual now stood on the emerald-green grass.

He stood looking at the fingers of gold, peach and yellow unfurl and spread across the skies in a deeply intimate embrace. This moment of unending peace gave solace to his soul, for a brief time he found himself before the Veil shielding the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctum in which resided the Eternal Parent. The One was neither male nor female but an amalgam of something more.

The vision was momentary, but sufficient to precipitate a transformation that could not be undone. As the Sun awakened, so did the song within the temple of his heart. It unfurled like the petals of a rare flower glimpsed for the first time, a sight worthy of celebration. The man swayed with the intensity of emotion flooding through him. These are the experiences of the mystic journey, the culmination of which is, transcendence of the earthly plane. It is a lonely journey, for the seeker on these paths is a solitary figure, becoming untouched by worldly matters as time progresses.

His voice trembled in the throat, deepening in richness and melody. The chant began, one performed in every temple since civilisation emerged and humanity laid its soul at the feet of supernatural forces. Arms were raised in adoration and eyes closed in ecstasy. A melody fell from his lips, each note moving sinuously towards the Veil before the Sanctum. Then, silence reigned, deafening in its loudness. The light pulsed and swelled in time with the song. It was the heartbeat of the Universe, raw and true in substance. This was the pinnacle of life as his people knew it. The Light within responded in joy to the Light without. Atom by atom he dissolved in the song, revelled in its embrace and words of comfort. “I am Ready” were his last words. The Ancient Song had been performed and existence for his world guaranteed until the next cycle.

Converging Paths

GG-125, Pixabay

For readers new to the blog I think it may be pertinent to advise you of the nature of the Shed, as the blog is commonly known. It can be likened to Dr Who’s Tardis, rather unassuming and small on first appearance but once you get inside, a different state of affairs. Dimension and time travel have been mainstays of this vehicle, as have autobiographical snippets, flash fiction, other odds and sods, and poetry from a non-poet as I like to call myself.

What of my fellow companions? The residents, well, more like squatters, can be a rowdy lot. Over the years they’ve managed to insinuate themselves into the (virtual) building and occupy every chair, sofa and piece of floor available. One point in their favour, they are quite clean and tidy, which is a blessing. I have to take the blame for welcoming them over the threshold, much like inviting a vampire. The Security staff are useless, the critters somehow always bamboozle them. How???

I never envisaged becoming a landlord but here I am. We give them a little attention, our characters that is, and they start to take liberties. The worst perpetrator is a certain escapee from Alice in Wonderland, the White Rabbit. “White Hare, White Hare, please get it right” he shouts at me from an armchair. I send him an apologetic look. He can be a little sensitive understandably. Oh, Anubis and Odin are the others. These three have taken me down some very odd paths, and there is a fourth to join their ranks, Tehuti/Djehuty/Thoth are his various names. He is the more, er, sensible of the group.

Not that I’m casting aspersions on Anubis and Odin, heaven forbid! They’re beings NEVER to be trifled with, but the Demiurge and Lord of Wisdom can be relied upon to give a balanced and well-informed opinion in difficult situations. I’m trying to put out bunting out for his arrival, rather excited. It’s been a while since we met up, although he has kept an eye on me over the years.

I like the surreal and odd, and they seem to like me, as evidenced by the creative outpourings.

It wasn’t so in the early days. Gosh, the Shed had a job attracting punters. Those were bleak days.

“Is this going anywhere?” a voice questions from inside a wardrobe.

Damn Lion!

tpf1959, Pixabay

As I was saying, those were bleak days. As for now, several paths are converging for yet another incursion into unexplored landscapes. My second blog has been given a sip of the waters of life and is reborn. The Storyteller’s journey continues, as do those of my Alchemist, Amunet (“The Hidden One”), the Templar Knight, and the Lightbearer. This signals a new phase in my life, inner life most importantly.

Knowledge has been a great love of mine even from childhood, I’ve accumulated it, pored over it, and loved it. Yet, knowledge is empty without practical application and experience. Something I’ve learned over the years, had to learn. Hence perhaps the reappearance of Tehuti to put things into perspective. What is of value and can help others should be willingly shared. A hand offered in help can save many that are either lost or searching for a missing piece of the puzzle.

The Demiurge stands in the temple, silhouetted against the dazzling light of the midday sun. He waits patiently, time has no meaning for a being such as him. It flows out of him, infusing every atom of the Universe. I’ve searched for the mystery at the heart of life, looked to the stars for clues, urged them for answers, and at times failed to hear what they had to say. I’ve placed my footsteps in the one who had gone ahead, guided by an unseen hand. The purpose of the journey? The reason for being, existing.

There are as many answers as there are grains of sand in the desert that lies before us. They are like reflections in an eye. I stand within the temple, staring into the distance, as always he stands before me, with hand outstretched, offering the moon. I move forward, grasp it. Two paths have converged. What lies ahead of us?

pixel2013, Pixabay

Mímir’s Well – Thursday photo prompt – Carved #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

Once again Sue has provided a powerful image for the Thursday Photo Prompt, and once again Odin’s Seer has appeared to peer into the waters of truth. I hope my words reflect her visions as she saw them:

This place is known as Mímisbrunner (Mímir’s Well), one of three wells found beneath the roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil. Within it are contained great wisdom and knowledge, lusted after by many who know not the depth of its waters and sacrifice demanded for even one sip. Even gods are not exempt from paying a price for the secrets it offers. Odin knew this well, and felt the agony of giving up what was most precious. I too have sacrificed much, stepping beyond the realms of all that is safe and known, for knowledge forbidden to the living and dead alike.

Our kind are called to this path, never being freed from its duties and burdens, that is if we care to accept the calling. If not, then the sight is dimmed, and we are blinded to the other worlds. Yet, they still call to me in dreams and visions, as the magic is potent and eternal in my blood and soul. I am here on this windblown and rain blasted place because they sought me out, urged travel from the western lands. Something is afoot, it stirs in the depths of the well. The One-Eyed One came to me as silent and swift as a shadow, brought portents of things incredible and filled with awe. This is a time of rising, of secrets being unveiled, of choices offered and fates spun. I prophesy for him and send dreams to the chosen.

The stone feels alive against my palms. It resonates with the power of gold and fire, falling like a waterfall into the great darkness and silence of Creation. I see that place of beginnings and eventual endings, have seen it reflected in my eyes since the time before birth into this world. Fire and Ice fall towards each other, both sentient and holders of secret knowledge. The first parents, sole inhabitants of what is sometimes known as the Great Silence. The veils shroud my eyes now and so it begins, I peer into the well as the time of recounting approaches.

I am blinded, consciousness retreating to the back of my skull and then, beyond into other places. I ask whether to go either backwards or forwards, left or right. My inner vision sees ephemeral shapes linger behind, hiding within sight. They hold questions that need to be asked and answers to be given. I feel the breath of anticipation brush against my cheek, it brings whispers of new beginnings waiting in the wings. They are silhouetted against the doorway, a portal carved with precision and beauty.

The waters clear, a head rises to the top. Mímir speaks in riddles, “the time of release and self-awareness await” he utters softly. The soul unravels, falling away to float away in the winds of change. All must face the time of reckoning, falsehoods and darkness confronted. The beasts wait on the periphery, thirst for your blood and flesh. What is your path of escape? What choices do you make, the same mistakes or new ones, step outside perceived reality? He pauses and then opens his eyes. I sink into them, falling, falling with no end in sight.

I utter many things, words that remain hidden from my conscious mind, they are meant only for you to understand. Ancient seas stir with the breath of winds, and waves break upon shores unknown. The skies shimmer with an obsidian light, illuminated by a pearlescent moon. A figure stands on the shore and stares out into the distance. Their heartbeat echoes loudly, it calls a name repeatedly, “Faith.” Only they know its significance. What does it mean to you Seeker? That is all I can tell you, the rest you have to seek out, offer a worthy sacrifice for what is to be conveyed. Give it to the waters, as Odin gave his eye. Go now.

As for me, our kind are called to this path, never being freed from its duties and burdens, that is if we care to accept the calling. If not, then the sight is dimmed, and we are blinded to the other worlds. Yet, they still call to me in dreams and visions, as the magic is potent and eternal in my blood and soul.


DasWortgewand, Pixabay

I felt the need to further explore my character Amunet’s past and this is the result. There appeared to be an underlying message in this “communication”. It was connected to the land and a people that seemed to vanish into forgetfulness and legend. In this chapter she appears as a woman called Magali (the Occitan form of Magdalene). Magali, as she was named by the Cathars who took her in, was considered a living embodiment of a Sleeper. One who decides at death to step back from the cycle of life and death and instead remain asleep in the land, dreaming, foretelling, and communing with all life.

The Cathars (“Pure Ones”) were condemned as heretics by the Church in the 13th century, in an age when its doctrines had hardened into dogma and politicking. The fate of these people was terrible, ending in 1244, in a nine month siege of their mountain fortress of Montsègur (in the Ariège department, south-western France). It culminated in a massacre. Many legends have grown around these mysterious people, with their true essence being hidden beneath a covering of subterfuge and illusion.

Occitan is a Romance language spoken in southern France and other areas. Occitania is the nomenclature given to the area where the language was first spoken and covers the Occitan Valleys in the Italian Alps, the old Aquitaine, Languedoc-Roussillon, the Aran Valley in the Pyrenees and the Principality of Monaco. Here ends my very brief outline. I visited the region many years ago and can testify to its special atmosphere. There is more, but that journey is for another time when the inner silence reveals another piece of the puzzle and allows me a clearer vision of these people. My fascination with them has a purpose. What does Magali have to say?

Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Where is here? A place where there are remnants of a people I once knew. I dreamed their fate, touched their fears and yearning, but they’re gone. Crumbled into dust, and scattered by the winds. I slept but was stirred back into life, heard their cries for help, saw what approached. Their eyes stared unseeing at visions rising from the horizon, an omen of things hidden within, cloaked from recognition. Their time was at an end, was foretold, of an age when hate and ignorance would rise in the place of greatest darkness.

My eyes saw their disintegration, as piece by piece their souls flew from shells burning on a multitude of pyres. Danger reigned supreme and the river of poison ran fast and deep, dragged their carcasses to places that should not be uttered aloud. The wind mourned them, brought whispered entreaties, and showered these ruins in melancholy. What an ignominious end to such a civilisation! Yet, hope clung on and Light retreated to a place of safety, waiting and watching.

Where people once enjoyed lives of serenity and contemplation is now shrouded in a loveliness born of sadness and tears. We search the past to find meaning in the present. Brush away earth and sand to reveal artefacts to catalogue, name and display as a manifestation of a knowledge that is ultimately empty. The land will not reveal its secrets to those who have no understanding of the meaning of this life and the mysteries of the Universe. I will not reveal knowledge and understanding that must be earned, in hardships many times. If you will not listen to me, then you are free to meet your fate on the road ahead, do not bemoan what befalls you.

These ruined buildings of stone and mud brick decay in this dry, wind and sun blasted place but life always find a way. It sends roots deep into the earth, is nourished by the heart of the planet. The spirits of this city sing to me, welcome me back but know it has come at a cost. More than they care to acknowledge. What glories this place has seen, drawing in luminaries from worlds seen and unseen. Bejewelled towers sprang forth to vanish into the clouds, testimony to a civilisation worthy of its name, now forgotten. I call to it, urge it to rise from its untimely grave. Hear me my beloved heart, take my hand and walk the roads of illumination and majesty that were once your right. Perfection of the spirit was your ultimate destination, it was the spring from which your people drank and bathed their sacred centres. I tended to the gardens of their soul, taught them the ways of mysteries, brought them to the place of death, and rebirth into a second life.

Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

As for me, I stand with feet buried in sand and memories, see dreams cast shadows across eyes that stare unseeing across the ages. See me for who I really am and be welcome. I bring the deep comfort of a mother’s arms, nourish your soul and aspirations, and cut the cord joining us when the time comes. My blade has a sharp kiss, and draws blood that fall like rubies, embodying both beauty and terror. I hold your ancestral history and my blood is your blood, ruby red and filled with wonders. I was Hidden but reveal myself now. See me, hear me.


Mysticsartdesign, Pixabay

Old Gods, Old Journeys – Thursday photo prompt – #writephoto


Image: Sue Vincent

My offering for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt:

Thy file past, hearts and minds filled with a multitude of wishes, sorrows, and joys. This pilgrimage has remained constant since the time of their ancestors and beyond. The land and its guardians have watched over this sacred site long before humans had even set foot on its hallowed earth. The gods changed faces and names over time, but their true essence was always present and unchanged.

The Old Ones watch from the other side of the Veil, see the sincerity, or not, of the passing crowds. Petitions and offerings are laid at the shrine, many imbued with feelings of desperation and hope. Humanity seeks cures for its ills, lays its battered spirits at the feet of its gods. Tears are shed, potent remembrances of lives fulfilled and potential unrealised. Their pilgrimages are often hard, last acts of faith when all else seems lost.

The Oracles and Gods of yore dispense their wisdom in dreams and visions, undertake new journeys in the furtherance of continuity. A fact not lost on the wise at heart and beleaguered of spirit. Suffering brings with it a harsh reality and clarity of purpose.

As for this shrine, the One with Three Names and Aspects stands guard, watches intently for the suffering of her people. They reciprocate, flowing like tributaries into the greater River of Life. One pilgrim falls to her knees, beseeches silently, grasps the hand of compassion and healing. Perched on the edge of a precipice she has no other recourse but to pray with her last breath.

It may be a modern world but the inherent nature of these people is written on stones in forgotten languages. It is an old, old tune. One sung and chanted under Sun and Moon, memorised intently and reverently. It is present in legends and histories that are hidden. Some say the Old Ones created their children of flesh and bone to sing their praises, and enact the divine plan on Earth.  Is this truth? Is this illusion?

Such things are of no concern to those who journey to these places of power. For they seek nourishment of the soul and healing of deep wounds. Who can blame them?


View Across The Water: Part 1 Of The Living Vessel

Image: Jan Malique

The month of the Crane was approaching, bringing with it mists from across the headland. His ancestors stood with him, gazing across the water to the sanctuary of the one known as the Hermit. The little white washed building stood on the remains of a temple dedicated to an unnamed deity. It was said this goddess had watched over his people from a time of cold and silence; when the world was frozen by the breath of ice giants. Or so legends said.

The Hermit had also acquired near mythological status, as people of his kind were often viewed with fear mingled with deep respect. His origins were unknown, but many kingdoms called him one of their own. Merlin was the name he answered to, although his true name was hidden.

The man on the shore had travelled for a year to reach this place. A year of hardship and danger, evading hostile forces, both human and supernatural. This was a time of warring factions, of cosmic and human battles. It was foretold by the Oracle that a time of balance was approaching, when choices would have to be made, and destinies shaped.

A sense of heaviness lay on the man’s shoulders, composed of a sense of duty and sacrifice. Sacrifice of things not physical but spiritual. He had undergone trials that would have broken someone with less resilience and humility. He had been forced to look deep within his soul and face its true reflection. Not an easy task. Self-insight never is.

During the most terrible moments of his sense of isolation the tears flowed like a raging river. As did his anger. Where were his gods when he needed them most? This state of abandonment had left him almost broken, shredded his humanity, left it bleeding profusely on the ground. Thus was he prepared for the task they had chosen him for.

He was marked as a protector of the ancient relic his people had been guarding for ten thousand sunrises. A ritual object their gods had dreamed into being, holding the power to transform, create and destroy. It had no physical form but resided within a living vessel. He was now the chosen vessel, bound by unbreakable oaths. So it was that this man was brought to the edge of an unknown land seeking his guide and teacher.


Image: OpenClipart-Vectors, Pixabay

The Hermit felt the man’s presence and prepared himself. The instruments of his art were gathered and his fire replenished. The sky and water simmered, infused with the scent of storms and portents. He whispered his student’s name, let it snake its way across the water, and enfold the human in a protective cloak.

The man swayed as if in a trance, standing on the threshold of this reality and the ones beyond consciousness. The relic sensed the presence of the Hermit and throbbed in response. The man opened his eyes and saw the Hermit before him. He spoke but no words issued from his lips. He conveyed knowledge through signs and visions. Through song and silence. So was a connection sealed with the vessel and relic.

The man stood unseeing and unspeaking. Then the dream shattered, releasing illusion and falsehoods. He felt the weight of suffering vanish like mist in the rays of the sun. Merlin beckoned the student and both got into the coracle waiting on the shore. A mist rolled in swallowing the two men. The ancestors stood guard on the shore; for as long as their kin was under the tutelage of the Hermit they would be present.

Here begins the journey of the one known as the Living Vessel.

Thursday photo prompt – Distant #writephoto by Jan Malique

Image: Sue Vincent

Infinity rose in the East, place of greatest light, as the tribe stood in silent respect. The day of the Third Sun and hour of the Unfolding Future was upon them, initiating the rite of disintegration and reintegration. Such a ritual had been performed by the Elders and Way showers since this phase of their world began. A time measured in tens of thousands of years. The cycle of this age was now nearing completion, and the Tree of Life and Death waited in the Temple of the Sun for the delegation from the people of the Third Sun.

The tribe viewed this event as a necessity to keep the cycles of the Universe ebbing and flowing. It was their duty and carried out with devotion and steadfastness. The journey to the spiritual heart of their planet waited in the snow-covered mountain range. It called to those ones chosen to undertake this task.

The stone circle they waited outside was a portal into the gigantic outer court of the Temple of the Sun. For the whole planet was a sacred landscape, littered with smaller temples that acted as power “sub-stations.” The main temple was psychically linked with every inhabitant of the planet, with each tribe pledging fealty to one of three suns in this multiverse. Every moment of their lives, every act, every thought, was imbued with a sense of purpose and devotion. Resilience was their distinguishing characteristic, with souls tempered in the fires of their Sun.

The High Priest and Priestess of the main temple appeared at the portal to escort the delegation to the place of ritual. It took milliseconds, for time behaved differently inside these precincts. The inner sanctum beckoned, composed of pillars of gleaming crystal, in the middle of the hall stood a tree of grandeur and awesome power. It was a remnant from the beginning of creation, placed by hands unknown in the very belly of the planet. Life and Death played out within its branches, words of power were inscribed upon its leaves, forbidden to all except the initiated.

The leaves shivered in expectation of the rise of power. The people of the Third Sun stood in a circle around the altar that was the Tree. Sound issued from the pillars of crystal, vibrating molecule upon molecule. The circle contained immense energy, powerful enough to incinerate millions of stars and galaxies. The time of disintegration was upon them, dismantling the Universe as it waited for the moment of transition; for death was an inadequate word for what was coming. Helices spun and transmuted as the skies turned to fire, all this and more was reflected in the eyes of the ritual participants, nine in all. Then silence descended upon the Universe, it held its breath, as darkness gathered, embraced its kith and kin. All mourned and then rejoiced.

Light bubbled over from the centre of the Tree and gathered up the remnants of all that was lost. Atom by atom the matter of the Universe coalesced, integration had been achieved and the time of the First Sun had begun.

Twittering Tale #67 – 16 January 2018 – “The Tree”


Photo by veeterzy at Pexels.com

Kat Myrman has presented us with a marvellous challenge this week in Twittering Tale #67, a thing of beauty to be praised in my opinion. To that end here is my offering to the World Tree:

Deep in the Forest lies the origin of All
Seen in dreams and visions within sacred pools
Guardian of the Ancestors, Bestower of Resurrection
Sacrificial temple
Tree of Life, bearer of the Worlds
Let us proclaim your beauty
Let us proclaim your sovereignty
Hail Proclaimer of Mysteries!

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