#even my ancestor’s language eludes me

[michi-chelle]

the dominican-american experience of learning and reading and hearing about your family’s roots but still feeling out of place and disconnected in the DR and in dominican spaces

[suchakidder]

 Uh, I meant to work on the last chapter of This is the Forest Primeval, but instead I worked on 1500 k words of Martin wanting kids?

This was supposed to be the opening of a time travel fic where only Martin goes to the past and interacts with bb!Jon, and it still might be, but for now it’s on it’s own. Set post 181. Read here or below

Martin wants something. It’s not a problem.

    Not long ago, it would have been. Shame and self-doubt were never far from desire, though sometimes they would trail behind at just the right distance that Martin would want something—  a new job, a day off, a harmless crush on his unavailable boss—  and think maybe, just maybe, he could want something and it would be ok, but then that distance would close up. Did he really need that pint of ice cream? Was it really necessary to call the landlord over the mold in the kitchen? Couldn’t he just be happy that he had a flat at all? Why was he always so greedy for more?

    At first, those had been in his mother’s derisive tone, but he repeated them to himself so often that over time, they lost the shape of her accent and intonation. It took even more time for a new voice to form, or perhaps it had been there ever since his mother had gone away and it took Martin far too long to realize, but that the inner voice repeating those same words was his own. 

    As an adult, he didn’t expect that voice to ever change but almost as soon as Martin accepted Peter Lukas’s protection, it was his voice, always so unflappable and even, that Martin heard in his own head. The thought he’d give credence to anything Peter said was laughable, truly laughable. In fact, the first time post-Lonely that doubt had crept into Martin’s mind he’d had to laugh out loud with such a sudden ferocity it shocked Jon. It has been too hard to explain through the great, shuddering laughs that made way to sobs after some time, but Martin had been able to eventually assure Jon he was quite alright. He never thought he’d be thankful for anything Peter Lukas had done, but Martin will take the win as it was.

    So he wants something. It’s not a problem. 

    The problem is, Martin doesn’t know what he wants. 

    Ever since Upton House, there’s been this desire humming through him, ever-present in his nerves and his mind, but completely eluding his attempts to see or grasp it. No matter how hard he tries to unravel it, it stays firmly hidden, though it steers Martin’s actions. It has something to do with Jon, Martin can tell that much, and even after days of spending nothing but basking in each other’s company at the house, all he wants to do is spend every moment memorizing the lines on Jon’s face or watching him the muscles in his arm shift as he gestures wildly while talking about something he finds interesting and other such sappy nonsense.

    Currently, they are in a small cave in a wooded area outside of a small village. The forest looks positively wicked, like “Snow White being torn at by the trees” wicked, but Jon’s assured Martin, in his best “I’m the authority on spookiness” voice that it’s a safer choice  than the seemingly fine looking village past the tree line. The cave is more accurately a little den under an outcropping of rock, no deeper than a meter, the barest bit of shelter from the outside. 

    There’s a bundle of twigs, bark, and tinder Jon collected and he is lighting them with the flint Martin had only really packed on a lark. He’d known nothing of wilderness survival aside from what he’d seen in shows and movies, but he could hardly conceive of walking to London without the basics. He didn’t really think they’d be put to use, but there Jon is, scraping the flint along the steel. 

    Martin watches his hands, his thin, long fingers, the waxy scar tissue on his left hand, as he works. Jon isn’t very strong, but he’s nimble and capable and Martin is awash with emotion and attraction. He had never known capability was his type, but he hadn’t known much of the particularities of his attractions until Jon. He hadn’t known much about himself at all until Jon.

    “I want you to remember me.” Martin says. It’s not quite right, but it’s almost there. Martin feels like he’s finally tugging the right thread, like he might finally find the end if he keeps traveling along. 

    “I—  Of course, I will.” Jon sets down the flint next to the unlit fire bundle and moves over to where Martin is sitting. From the distant and harsh man Martin had first known Jon as, he never would have expected how tactile he is now. There’s a language all it’s own to his touches, and right now he folds both his hands over Martin’s and grips on to him, not tightly, but firmly.  “It was only the camera lens at— “

    “I know. It’s not that. It’s, it’s… I want you to remember me, but not just you. Or maybe you and maybe it’s remembered that isn’t right. I want…”

    Martin could just ask Jon to ask, it would be easier that way, but Martin knows he’s so close.  “When I used to think about dying, I was always… All my descendants, generation after generation, they were born and they toiled and they died, and they all did it so it could one day get to me, and when I thought about it, it just seemed like some big mistake or cosmic joke.”

    “And now?” Jon asks carefully.

    “I don’t… I want to be remembered for being here. Not here as in part of the apocalypse, but… I lived and loved. My personhood wasn’t a waste of space.”

    Jon doesn’t have to tell Martin that was never true; they both know that. It only took the apocalypse to become a person, but Martin’s not sorry for it.

    “I think, I think that’s why people have kids. I thought of my ancestors and thought it was biology or society, or I don’t know, that selfish need to pass on your progeny. But I think when you love someone, I mean, really truly love someone, you’ve found something so rare and so precious that you know you can make something bigger than yourselves together. You don’t just want to make something more than yourself or think you can, you Know you can.” 

Jon’s pulled his hands away to let Martin think but Martin snatches them back, needing more than words to try to portray this truth. He holds onto Jon as hard as he can. 

    “I want kids,” Martin says without any shame or doubt.

    “Martin,” There’s a long pause. “I don’t think I need to tell you that adoption agencies aren’t exactly operational right now.”

    Martin looks at Jon but he doesn’t need the Eye to tell him that Jon is doubtful, or to tell him why. It hurts, deep down where Martin keeps all the sorrow over just how lonely Jon’s life has been, how the little love he received in his life is highly disparate without how much he deserved. 

    “You would be a good dad Jon.”

    Jon just looks at him skeptically.

    “You would! You would read to them, every night, and you’d do the voices and then you’d explain the moral or the symbolism. You’d be involved in… in whatever they were into, theater or… bugs, or, god help us, sports. You would learn everything you could.”   

    “Well, I don’t think I’d have much of a choice about it,” Jon says with a tight lipped grimace.

    “But you’d want to. That’s--that’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter whether you have an encyclopedia in your head, we both know you aren’t Knowing it all the time. You would consciously know everything you could.”

    Jon doesn’t quite agree, but he doesn’t protest and Martin lets him go, barely an arm’s reach away, to finish lighting the fire and they don’t talk about it the rest of the night. 

    Martin doesn’t let himself imagine the what-ifs and could-have-beens, not now in this world. There’s nothing to gain from that. But he lets himself now, imaging Jon awkwardly holding a baby, or sat with a school aged child at the kitchen table, their kitchen table, heads bent over homework. Jon would help them, calmly explaining whatever concept they were stuck on, patient no matter how many different approaches it has to take.

Martin wants it so badly he feels sick with it, all this desire and want and somewhere in it, the faintest sliver of hope. He wants something he can’t have and it’s not a problem, but it does have the making of a tragedy if Martin lets it. 

So he doesn’t.

When they lay down, Martin to try to force his body into a few hours of sleep and Jon to achieve whatever form of rest he can, Martin curls up behind Jon, his front pressed up tight against Jon’s, one leg slipped between his. Their entwined hands rest over Jon’s chest where there’s the barest flicker of a heartbeat, irregular, faint, but there. 

In the quiet stillness they’ve created of this fear destroyed world, Martin whispers it all to Jon, the dreams and what-ifs, everything he wants for them. Of everything Jonah Magnus has robbed them of, Martin refuses to let this be one.

[roman-catholic-mass-readings]

24th November >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Saints Andrew Dũng-Lạc and his Companions, Martyrs  

    on 

Tuesday, Thirty Fourth Week in Ordinary Time.

Tuesday, Thirty Fourth Week in Ordinary Time

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the feria (Tuesday))

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

Apocalypse 14:14-19

The harvest and the vintage of the earth are ripe

In my vision I, John, saw a white cloud and, sitting on it, one like a son of man with a gold crown on his head and a sharp sickle in his hand. Then another angel came out of the sanctuary, and shouted aloud to the one sitting on the cloud, ‘Put your sickle in and reap: harvest time has come and the harvest of the earth is ripe.’ Then the one sitting on the cloud set his sickle to work on the earth, and the earth’s harvest was reaped.    Another angel, who also carried a sharp sickle, came out of the temple in heaven, and the angel in charge of the fire left the altar and shouted aloud to the one with the sharp sickle, ‘Put your sickle in and cut all the bunches off the vine of the earth; all its grapes are ripe.’ So the angel set his sickle to work on the earth and harvested the whole vintage of the earth and put it into a huge winepress, the winepress of God’s anger.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 95(96):10-13

R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth.

Proclaim to the nations: ‘God is king.’    The world he made firm in its place;    he will judge the peoples in fairness.

R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth.

Let the heavens rejoice and earth be glad,    let the sea and all within it thunder praise, let the land and all it bears rejoice,    all the trees of the wood shout for joy at the presence of the Lord for he comes,    he comes to rule the earth.

R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth.

With justice he will rule the world,    he will judge the peoples with his truth.

R/ The Lord comes to rule the earth.

Gospel Acclamation

Luke 21:28

Alleluia, alleluia! Stand erect, hold your heads high, because your liberation is near at hand. Alleluia!

Or:

Revelation 2:10

Alleluia, alleluia! Even if you have to die, says the Lord, keep faithful, and I will give you the crown of life. Alleluia!

Gospel

Luke 21:5-11

The destruction of the Temple foretold

When some were talking about the Temple, remarking how it was adorned with fine stonework and votive offerings, Jesus said, ‘All these things you are staring at now – the time will come when not a single stone will be left on another: everything will be destroyed.’ And they put to him this question: ‘Master,’ they said ‘when will this happen, then, and what sign will there be that this is about to take place?’    ‘Take care not to be deceived,’ he said ‘because many will come using my name and saying, “I am he” and, “The time is near at hand.” Refuse to join them. And when you hear of wars and revolutions, do not be frightened, for this is something that must happen but the end is not so soon.’ Then he said to them, ‘Nation will fight against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be great earthquakes and plagues and famines here and there; there will be fearful sights and great signs from heaven.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Saints Andrew Dũng-Lạc and his Companions, Martyrs

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

EITHER:

First Reading

2 Chronicles 24:18-22

'You have deserted the Lord: now he deserts you'

The Judaeans abandoned the Temple of the Lord, the God of their ancestors, for the worship of sacred poles and idols. Because of their guilt, God’s anger fell on Judah and Jerusalem. He sent them prophets to bring them back to the Lord, but when these gave their message, they would not listen. The spirit of God took possession of Zechariah son of Jehoiada the priest. He stood up before the people and said, ‘God says this, “Why do you transgress the commandments of the Lord to no good purpose? You have deserted the Lord, now he deserts you.”’ They then plotted against him and by order of the king stoned him in the court of the Temple of the Lord. King Joash, forgetful of the kindness that Jehoiada, the father of Zechariah, had shown him, killed Jehoiada’s son who cried out as he died, ‘The Lord sees and he will avenge!’

OR: --------

First reading 2 Maccabees 6:18,21,24-31 I am glad to suffer because of the awe which he inspires in me

Eleazar, one of the foremost teachers of the Law, a man already advanced in years and of most noble appearance, was being forced to open his mouth wide to swallow pig’s flesh. Those in charge of the impious banquet, because of their long-standing friendship with him, took him aside and privately urged him to have meat brought of a kind he could properly use, prepared by himself, and only pretend to eat the portions of sacrificial meat as prescribed by the king.    ‘Such pretence’ he said ‘does not square with our time of life; many young people would suppose that Eleazar at the age of ninety had conformed to the foreigners’ way of life, and because I had played this part for the sake of a paltry brief spell of life might themselves be led astray on my account; I should only bring defilement and disgrace on my old age. Even though for the moment I avoid execution by man, I can never, living or dead, elude the grasp of the Almighty. Therefore if I am man enough to quit this life here and now I shall prove myself worthy of my old age, and I shall have left the young a noble example of how to make a good death, eagerly and generously, for the venerable and holy laws.’    With these words he went straight to the block. His escorts, so recently well disposed towards him, turned against him after this declaration, which they regarded as sheer madness. Just before he died under the blows, he groaned aloud and said, ‘The Lord whose knowledge is holy sees clearly that, though I might have escaped death, whatever agonies of body I now endure under this bludgeoning, in my soul I am glad to suffer, because of the awe which he inspires in me.’    This was how he died, leaving his death as an example of nobility and a record of virtue not only for the young but for the great majority of the nation.

OR: --------

First reading 2 Maccabees 7:1-2,9-14 'The King of the world will raise us up to live for ever'

There were seven brothers who were arrested with their mother. The king tried to force them to taste pig’s flesh, which the Law forbids, by torturing them with whips and scourges. One of them, acting as spokesman for the others, said, ‘What are you trying to find out from us? We are prepared to die rather than break the laws of our ancestors.’    With his last breath the second brother exclaimed, ‘Inhuman fiend, you may discharge us from this present life, but the King of the world will raise us up, since it is for his laws that we die, to live again for ever.’    After him, they amused themselves with the third, who on being asked for his tongue promptly thrust it out and boldly held out his hands, with these honourable words, ‘It was heaven that gave me these limbs; for the sake of his laws I disdain them; from him I hope to receive them again.’ The king and his attendants were astounded at the young man’s courage and his utter indifference to suffering.    When this one was dead they subjected the fourth to the same savage torture. When he neared his end he cried, ‘Ours is the better choice, to meet death at men’s hands, yet relying on God’s promise that we shall be raised up by him; whereas for you there can be no resurrection, no new life.’

OR: --------

First reading 2 Maccabees 7:1,20-23,27-29 Make death welcome, so that in the day of mercy I may receive you back

There were seven brothers who were arrested with their mother. The king tried to force them to taste pig’s flesh, which the Law forbids, by torturing them with whips and scourges. But the mother was especially admirable and worthy of honourable remembrance, for she watched the death of seven sons in the course of a single day, and endured it resolutely because of her hopes in the Lord. Indeed she encouraged each of them in the language of their ancestors; filled with noble conviction, she reinforced her womanly argument with manly courage, saying to them, ‘I do not know how you appeared in my womb; it was not I who endowed you with breath and life, I had not the shaping of your every part. It is the creator of the world, ordaining the process of man’s birth and presiding over the origin of all things, who in his mercy will most surely give you back both breath and life, seeing that you now despise your own existence for the sake of his laws.’    She said to her youngest son, ‘My son, have pity on me; I carried you nine months in my womb and suckled you three years, fed you and reared you to the age you are now (and cherished you). I implore you, my child, observe heaven and earth, consider all that is in them, and acknowledge that God made them out of what did not exist, and that mankind comes into being in the same way. Do not fear this executioner, but prove yourself worthy of your brothers, and make death welcome, so that in the day of mercy I may receive you back in your brothers’ company.’

OR: --------

First reading Wisdom 3:1-9 The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God

The souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God, no torment shall ever touch them. In the eyes of the unwise, they did appear to die, their going looked like a disaster, their leaving us, like annihilation; but they are in peace. If they experienced punishment as men see it, their hope was rich with immortality; slight was their affliction, great will their blessings be. God has put them to the test and proved them worthy to be with him; he has tested them like gold in a furnace, and accepted them as a holocaust. When the time comes for his visitation they will shine out; as sparks run through the stubble, so will they. They shall judge nations, rule over peoples, and the Lord will be their king for ever. They who trust in him will understand the truth, those who are faithful will live with him in love; for grace and mercy await those he has chosen.

OR: --------

First reading Ecclesiasticus 51:1-8 Thanks to God the saviour

I will give thanks to you, Lord and King,    and praise you, God my saviour,    I give thanks to your name; for you have been protector and support to me,    and redeemed my body from destruction, from the snare of the lying tongue,    from lips that fabricate falsehood; and in the presence of those around me    you have been my support, you have redeemed me, true to the greatness of your mercy and of your name,    from the fangs of those who would devour me, from the hands of those seeking my life,    from the many ordeals which I have endured, from the stifling heat which hemmed me in,    from the heart of a fire which I had not kindled, from deep in the belly of Sheol,    from the unclean tongue and the lying word –    the perjured tongue slandering me to the king. My soul has been close to death,    my life had gone down to the brink of Sheol. They were surrounding me on every side, there was no-one to support me;    I looked for someone to help – in vain. Then I remembered your mercy, Lord,    and your deeds from earliest times, how you deliver those who wait for you patiently,    and save them from the clutches of their enemies.

-------- ________

EITHER: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 30(31):3-4,6,8,16-17

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Be a rock of refuge for me,    a mighty stronghold to save me, for you are my rock, my stronghold.    For your name’s sake, lead me and guide me.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

Into your hands I commend my spirit.    It is you who will redeem me, Lord. As for me, I trust in the Lord:    let me be glad and rejoice in your love.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

My life is in your hands, deliver me    from the hands of those who hate me. Let your face shine on your servant.    Save me in your love.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 33(34):2-9

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

I will bless the Lord at all times,    his praise always on my lips; in the Lord my soul shall make its boast.    The humble shall hear and be glad.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

Glorify the Lord with me.    Together let us praise his name. I sought the Lord and he answered me;    from all my terrors he set me free.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

Look towards him and be radiant;    let your faces not be abashed. This poor man called, the Lord heard him    and rescued him from all his distress.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

The angel of the Lord is encamped    around those who revere him, to rescue them. Taste and see that the Lord is good.    He is happy who seeks refuge in him.

From all my terrors the Lord set me free.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 123(124):2-5,7-8

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

If the Lord had not been on our side    when men rose up against us, then would they have swallowed us alive    when their anger was kindled.

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

Then would the waters have engulfed us,    the torrent gone over us; over our head would have swept    the raging waters.

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

Indeed the snare has been broken    and we have escaped. Our help is in the name of the Lord,    who made heaven and earth.

Our life, like a bird, has escaped from the snare of the fowler.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 125(126):1-6

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

When the Lord delivered Zion from bondage,    it seemed like a dream. Then was our mouth filled with laughter,    on our lips there were songs.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

The heathens themselves said: ‘What marvels    the Lord worked for them!’ What marvels the Lord worked for us!    Indeed we were glad.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

Deliver us, O Lord, from our bondage    as streams in dry land. Those who are sowing in tears    will sing when they reap.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

They go out, they go out, full of tears,    carrying seed for the sowing: they come back, they come back, full of song,    carrying their sheaves.

Those who are sowing in tears will sing when they reap.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 15(16):1-2,5,7-8,11

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

Preserve me, God, I take refuge in you.    I say to the Lord: ‘You are my God.’ O Lord, it is you who are my portion and cup;    it is you yourself who are my prize.

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

I will bless the Lord who gives me counsel,    who even at night directs my heart. I keep the Lord ever in my sight:    since he is at my right hand, I shall stand firm.

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

You will show me the path of life,    the fullness of joy in your presence,    at your right hand happiness for ever.

You are my inheritance, O Lord.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 22(23):1-3a,5-6

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

The Lord is my shepherd;    there is nothing I shall want. Fresh and green are the pastures    where he gives me repose.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

Near restful waters he leads me,    to revive my drooping spirit. He guides me along the right path;    he is true to his name.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

You have prepared a banquet for me    in the sight of my foes. My head you have anointed with oil;    my cup is overflowing.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

Surely goodness and kindness shall follow me    all the days of my life. In the Lord’s own house shall I dwell    for ever and ever.

The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 39(40):2,4,7-10

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

I waited, I waited for the Lord    and he stooped down to me;    he heard my cry. He put a new song into my mouth,    praise of our God.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

You do not ask for sacrifice and offerings,    but an open ear. You do not ask for holocaust and victim.    Instead, here am I.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

In the scroll of the book it stands written    that I should do your will. My God, I delight in your law    in the depth of my heart.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

Your justice I have proclaimed    in the great assembly. My lips I have not sealed;    you know it, O Lord.

Here I am, Lord! I come to do your will.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 88(89):2-5,21-22,25,27

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord;    through all ages my mouth will proclaim your truth. Of this I am sure, that your love lasts for ever,    that your truth is firmly established as the heavens.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have made a covenant with my chosen one;    I have sworn to David my servant: I will establish your dynasty for ever    and set up your throne through all ages.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘I have found David my servant    and with my holy oil anointed him. My hand shall always be with him    and my arm shall make him strong.

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

‘My truth and my love shall be with him;    by my name his might shall be exalted. He will say to me: “You are my father,    my God, the rock who saves me.”’

I will sing for ever of your love, O Lord.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 95(96):1-3,7-8,10

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

O sing a new song to the Lord,    sing to the Lord all the earth.    O sing to the Lord, bless his name.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Proclaim his help day by day,    tell among the nations his glory    and his wonders among all the peoples.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Give the Lord, you families of peoples,    give the Lord glory and power;    give the Lord the glory of his name.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

Proclaim to the nations: ‘God is king.’    The world he made firm in its place;    he will judge the peoples in fairness.

Proclaim the wonders of the Lord among all the peoples.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 105(106):19-23

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

They fashioned a calf at Horeb    and worshipped an image of metal, exchanging the God who was their glory    for the image of a bull that eats grass.

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

They forgot the God who was their saviour,    who had done such great things in Egypt, such portents in the land of Ham,    such marvels at the Red Sea.

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

For this he said he would destroy them,    but Moses, the man he had chosen, stood in the breach before him,    to turn back his anger from destruction.

O Lord, remember me out of the love you have for your people.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 109(110):1-4

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

The Lord’s revelation to my Master:    ‘Sit on my right:    your foes I will put beneath your feet.’

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

The Lord will wield from Zion    your sceptre of power:    rule in the midst of all your foes.

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

A prince from the day of your birth    on the holy mountains;    from the womb before the dawn I begot you.

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

The Lord has sworn an oath he will not change.    ‘You are a priest for ever,    a priest like Melchizedek of old.’

You are a priest for ever, a priest like Melchizedek of old.

OR: --------

Responsorial Psalm Psalm 116(117):1-2

Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News. or Alleluia!

O praise the Lord, all you nations,    acclaim him all you peoples!

Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News. or Alleluia!

Strong is his love for us;    he is faithful for ever.

Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News. or Alleluia!

-------- ________

Gospel Acclamation Mt5:10

Alleluia, alleluia! Happy those who are persecuted in the cause of right, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Alleluia!

Or: Jn17:19

Alleluia, alleluia! For their sake I consecrate myself, so that they too may be consecrated in the truth. Alleluia!

Or: 2Co1:3-4

Alleluia, alleluia! Blessed be God, a gentle Father and the God of all consolation, who comforts us in all our sorrows. Alleluia!

Or: Jm1:12

Alleluia, alleluia! Happy the man who stands firm, for he has proved himself, and will win the crown of life. Alleluia!

Or: 1P4:14

Alleluia, alleluia! It is a blessing for you when they insult you for bearing the name of Christ, for the Spirit of God rests on you. Alleluia!

Or: cf.Te Deum

Alleluia, alleluia! We praise you, O God, we acknowledge you to be the Lord; the noble army of martyrs praise you, O Lord. Alleluia!

________

EITHER: --------

Gospel Matthew 10:17-22 The Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you

Jesus said to his disciples: ‘Beware of men: they will hand you over to sanhedrins and scourge you in their synagogues. You will be dragged before governors and kings for my sake, to bear witness before them and the pagans. But when they hand you over, do not worry about how to speak or what to say; what you are to say will be given to you when the time comes; because it is not you who will be speaking; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you.    ‘Brother will betray brother to death, and the father his child; children will rise against their parents and have them put to death. You will be hated by all men on account of my name; but the man who stands firm to the end will be saved.’

OR: --------

Gospel Matthew 10:28-33 Do not be afraid of those who kill the body

Jesus said to his apostles: ‘Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; fear him rather who can destroy both body and soul in hell. Can you not buy two sparrows for a penny? And yet not one falls to the ground without your Father knowing. Why, every hair on your head has been counted. So there is no need to be afraid; you are worth more than hundreds of sparrows.    ‘So if anyone declares himself for me in the presence of men, I will declare myself for him in the presence of my Father in heaven. But the one who disowns me in the presence of men, I will disown in the presence of my Father in heaven.’

OR: --------

Gospel Matthew 10:34-39 It is not peace I have come to bring, but a sword

Jesus instructed the Twelve as follows: ‘Do not suppose that I have come to bring peace to the earth: it is not peace I have come to bring, but a sword. For I have come to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law. A man’s enemies will be those of his own household.    ‘Anyone who prefers father or mother to me is not worthy of me. Anyone who prefers son or daughter to me is not worthy of me. Anyone who does not take his cross and follow in my footsteps is not worthy of me. Anyone who finds his life will lose it; anyone who loses his life for my sake will find it.’

OR: --------

Gospel Luke 9:23-26 The Son of Man is destined to suffer grievously

Jesus said:    ‘If anyone wants to be a follower of mine, let him renounce himself and take up his cross every day and follow me. For anyone who wants to save his life will lose it; but anyone who loses his life for my sake, that man will save it. What gain, then, is it for a man to have won the whole world and to have lost or ruined his very self? For if anyone is ashamed of me and of my words, of him the Son of Man will be ashamed when he comes in his own glory and in the glory of the Father and the holy angels.’

OR: --------

Gospel John 12:24-26 If a grain of wheat falls on the ground and dies, it yields a rich harvest

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘I tell you, most solemnly, unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest. Anyone who loves his life loses it; anyone who hates his life in this world will keep it for the eternal life. If a man serves me, he must follow me, wherever I am, my servant will be there too. If anyone serves me, my Father will honour him.’

OR: --------

Gospel John 15:18-21 The world hated me before it hated you

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘If the world hates you, remember that it hated me before you. If you belonged to the world, the world would love you as its own; but because you do not belong to the world, because my choice withdrew you from the world, therefore the world hates you. Remember the words I said to you: A servant is not greater than his master. If they persecuted me, they will persecute you too; if they kept my word, they will keep yours as well. But it will be on my account that they will do all this, because they do not know the one who sent me.’

OR: --------

Gospel John 17:11-19 Father, keep those you have given me true to your name

Jesus raised his eyes to heaven and said:

‘Holy Father, keep those you have given me true to your name, so that they may be one like us. While I was with them, I kept those you had given me true to your name. I have watched over them and not one is lost except the one who chose to be lost, and this was to fulfil the scriptures. But now I am coming to you and while still in the world I say these things to share my joy with them to the full. I passed your word on to them, and the world hated them, because they belong to the world no more than I belong to the world. I am not asking you to remove them from the world, but to protect them from the evil one. They do not belong to the world any more than I belong to the world. Consecrate them in the truth; your word is truth. As you sent me into the world, I have sent them into the world, and for their sake I consecrate myself so that they too may be consecrated in truth.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

[iawv]

She Called Him Fen’Harel - ‘Freedom’ Chapter 11

Also on AO3

"Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides."

― André Malraux

Most days he spent in his cottage or in the forest near Haven. The Fade eluded him lately, perhaps because of the noises and the crowds. Haven became a shelter for many in only a few weeks. He started to miss their missions outside this irritating place.

He grabbed his cloak and closed the cottage door behind him just to be greeted by the gossips about their Blessed Herald of Andarste. Everyone was talking only about her. Whenever he wanted to avoid any new stories or comments, he was finding himself in the center of it, as if everyone were against him.

"She seems unfriendly, but when my husband was sick she delivered herbs and potions" he heard.

"It must be magic, I tell ya. Nobody looks that good being 30!" some lady seemed annoyed, "She is weird. A savage, dalish, I've heard."

They evaluated on her every move, every gesture, her clothes, her interactions with the inner circle of the inquisition. The gossips circulated each day in new ways, such as having a drink with Varric, or how in the next day, she spent an hour with her commander. News spread that perhaps the whole village is witness to a blossoming romance between the two.

It was tiring, even if he experienced it so many times before, maybe this is why it was so tiring. The unwanted déjà vu.

What a cynical, empty, and hopeless age this was.

He passed the small tavern taking his steps towards the main gate - a day before he had found an interesting spot to clear his mind and study books delivered by Lady Ambassador. The woman had quite good contacts; still, he wished he could have access to better resources. His thoughts ventured to the Vir Dirthara.

"What do you mean I cannot leave Haven?" Lavellan's voice reached his ears, and he looked up at the Herald. Her voice polite and calm at the surface but by the signs of the body language and deminer, hands folded behind her back told him anything but of tension and a hint of defensiveness.

"I mean, you cannot leave alone to risk your life in search of one animal Herald" Cassandra explained slowly.

"Must I remind you, Seeker, I could easily change my appearance and leave Haven without you knowing of it?" the answer came quickly and smoothly. Solas slowed his steps just to observe this verbal exchange.

"You could..." Seeker gaze darkened but Lavellan ignored it.

"I would not. That is why I am asking you to give me permission to investigate the case of the corrupted wolves." he could hear an unspoken plea in Herald's voice.

"I appreciate that but as I said, Herald" Seeker straightened her back, folding her hands behind her back in a similar manner as the Herald, face tense, unease in her eyes "You can't leave alone."

"Ah. I hear it somewhat different. I can't leave without you, Seeker. You have other matters which force you to stay in Haven for at least a week," Lavellan murmured, her gaze momentarily sliding past him to some distance, and it seems as if an idea struck her, as her gaze refocused onto him, pinning him.

The Seeker frowned and followed Herald's gaze, the woman opened her mouth, but Lavellan was quicker with a response "I suppose I can travel with Solas and Varric then. Will you agree, Cassandra?" Solas could recognize the purposeful use of the Seeker's name, "We will report at every Inquisition's camp."

What a manipulative woman, he thought. He had mixed feelings about any excursions with her.

A long sigh escaped Seeker's mouth "Alright, Herald. Do as you must."

"Ma serannas. Ha'hren," her eyes found him once more, "When you can prepare yourself to depart?" a slight excitement in her gaze and the sudden smile on her face dazzled him for a short moment, the way it changed her features, softening it...

He cleared his throat "In a few minutes, Herald."

His expression stayed polite and calm as she brushed past him, her steps light and quicker than ever before.

"We really are in the ass-end of nowhere now," Varric stated over the silence. Falherna chuckled reaching to her traveling bag, her features lightening up as she pulled up a bottle of what seemed to be Grey Whiskey.

"For you," she handed it to him, "Perhaps it will quiet down your complaints."

Varric chuckled, which transformed into genuine laughter, "Oh, Brighteyes, I wish it could be so simple.".

"You are not the only one wishing it," she murmured, scanning the road and trees. They walked in blissful silence for a while. She could hear Solas' bare feet ghosting over the ground.

Her thoughts drifted to their conversation from two weeks before. Since then, she did not seek him out because her mind was occupied with other matters; still, she longed to another chance to speak with him about the Fade. His input was interesting, to say at least. His voice was pleasant to her ear, the pace of his words fascinated her, reminding her of nights under the stars when her father read her poetry. Hearing Solas speak left a similar impression in her memory.

"So, elf, did our Herald explain to you what kind of mess we are going to clean up today?" Varric said as he walked at Solas' side.

"She did not, Master Tethras." Falherna sent them both a quick glance.

"No need. Solas overheard my conversation with Seeker Pentaghast," she replied.

"Varric, you joined the Inquisition when seeker Pentaghast questioned you?" she accepted the change of a subject with relief.

"She was very insistent that I help." Varric chuckled, and she could hear he was a little surprised by Solas's question.

"Interesting." the apostate murmured.

"What's interesting?" Varric sent him a curious glance, frowning a bit.

"It surprises me that an elven apostate is the one who joined the Inquisition voluntarily."

She observed him by the corner of her eye. He seemed relaxed, calm, resolutely marching beside her, but she could tell there was some tension in his eyes.

"Nobody thanked you for that?" she asked quietly scanning his face. Was it the gratitude he was missing or perhaps he was so arrogant to point out his action?

The genuine roll of his laughter surprised her. "I do not seek gratitude, Herald."

"No?" she insisted without knowing why it was so important to get an honest answer from him.

"No."

"Understood." she murmured. "Still, in my opinion, it is very admirable. You decided to remain. Thank you, Solas." Falherna sent him a soft smile.

There was something in his expression as he looked at her. Something different. Something she could not place. Before she could try it disappeared.

"It will be interesting to watch this fledgling Inquisition make its way. I will stay to see it. For now," he stated slowly, sending her a quick glance, "I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces, and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution."

"I do," she exhaled and shook her head. "You came here to help, Solas. I won't let them use that against you." She looked at him, straight into his eyes with this internal wish to convince him that nobody in Haven will suffer as long as she is there.

"How would you stop them?" The question pierced her heart. Solas' tone low, his expression severe and intense as if he really wanted to know the methods she would use.

"However I have to," she replied in the same manner.

The moment stretched out between them, staring at one another.

"Thank you." He was genuinely surprised.

They walked in silence for a time. She started to count the steps, staring at the trees, expressionless. One, two, three, four, five...

Thoughts in her head slowly changed their speed, finding their proper place and the order, the priorities were again clear for her.

"By the end of Hard in Hightown, almost every character is revealed as a spy or a traitor," she heard and smiled. She did not notice she left Varric and Solas behind till now, she tilted her head slightly to listen to their conversation. She would never guess Solas is the type of person who reads Varric's novels.

"Wait, you read my book?" Varric laughed, shocked.

"It was in the Inquisition library. Everyone but Donnen turned out to be in disguise. Is this common?" She could not help but chuckle.

"Are we still talking about books, or are you asking if everyone I know is a secret agent?"

"Are there many tricksters in dwarven literature?"

"A handful, but they're the exception. Mostly they're just honoring the ancestors. It's very dull stuff. Human literature? Now here's where you'll find the tricky, clever, really deceptive types."

"Curious." He really seemed interested.

"Not really. Dwarves write how they want things to be. Humans write to figure out how things are."

"The elven history has one of the biggest tricksters," she stated calmly, guarding her tone.

"Here we go again, Brighteyes..." Varric laughed and sighed.

She smiled and carried on, not at all discouraged.

"In ancient times, only Fen'Harel could walk without fear among both our gods and the Forgotten Ones, for although he was kin to the gods of the People, the Forgotten Ones knew of his cunning ways and saw him as one of their own. And that is how Fen'Harel tricked them." she laughed loudly.

"I am sure you know all these Dalish stories, Solas." she looked at him and found him frowning.

"Stories?" he asked with a calm voice, but she had the impression he was transfixed.

"What else would you call them?" While speaking, she drew a map from her pouch and studied it for a while. Leliana's agent had delivered it to her a day before with a marked location.

"Dalish called themselves the best hope for preserving the culture of 'our People'," "she continued not waiting for any response, throwing words and letting them hang in the air.

"Ah, our people. They use that phrase so casually. It should mean more... but the Dalish have forgotten that. Among other things,"

Falherna scanned his face for a while, processing the words. Was it sadness in his voice? Hidden upon measured tone?

"Is it sadness in your voice that I am hearing, hahren?" her thought formed into words unexpectedly.

He sent her a quick glance "Perhaps, Herald," he said then fell in silence. She let him stay quiet, observing him with a corner of her eye. Suddenly she knew he will open his mouth and speak again. She came back to counting her steps anew.

"While they pass on stories," Falherna heard his voice when her counting reached three, "mangling details, I walk the Fade. I have seen things they have not." Solas said quietly but fiercely.

"Hey Fal, do we need to march everywhere?" Varric looked at her over his shoulder, "I thought master Dennet's horses would be a better way to travel." he sighed, and she smiled.

"Tomorrow they will arrive,"

"Great," he murmured under his breath as he wiped his forehead with a sleeve.

"Whiner," Falherna chuckled slowly chewing.

"What you do have there?" Varric looked at her with curiosity and a small smile.

"An apple. I know the answer already but do you want one?" she teased him.

"Nah, thanks," he kicked the rock on the road, and he brushed his hair.

"Solas?" She looked at the elf, wondering if he was disappointed about the interrupted conversation as much as she was, but he seemed distant and calm. Always so stoic, almost indifferent.

"Thank you, Herald. I am fine," he answered, and this time, he didn't bother himself to look at her.

Fal leaned heavily on her staff, silently cursing their misfortune.

The pain grew hotly over her leg. A wolf's sharp claw had sliced through her armor, and she could feel blood spurt down her calf and onto her feet.

"Fenedhis!" she cursed as she sent an unrelenting fire into a wolf. The animal howled loudly. The pack moved, like a flock of birds, a wave, in one smooth move.

"An alpha," a whisper escaped her lips. A big, beautiful alpha male.

Such a waste, such a loss, she thought.

Falherna growled, and with a single sweep of her staff, she called the power of thunder paralyzing the wolves. Solas took the opportunity to lock them in a sheet of ice, freezing them in place while Varric finished them with a rain of arrows.

"We must move!" Solas screamed towards her. She nodded and started to sprint deeper and deeper into a cave. She could feel bones cracking under her feet, remnants of small animals. The den was more prominent and darker than a previous one.

Behind her back, she heard Varric's grunt and a twang that echoed through the walls of the cave. Solas caught up with her panting quietly.

"We're close," he stated what seemed obvious to her. Perhaps she was simply half-elf, but she had heightened senses, and she could recognize the quiet stomps of a creature that wasn't a wolf. A sudden scream spread throughout the entire cave, and Falherna inhaled deeply preparing herself.

"We kill the demon. If it's possible to spare the wolves, do it." she whispered.

They found a small pit hidden behind the rock, a great spot both to stay unseen and to observe the area.

"Fal..." Varric looked at her with a deep frown.

"Just the demon," she insisted scanning the cave, counting wolves, regarding them carefully while searching for a sign of Fen.

She glanced at the demon, stomping slowly amongst wolves, a lesser terror it was. They had fought it not once before with success.

She sent a quick glance to Solas, and Varric giving them a nodding sing and she rose slowly. The wolf on her left growled. Cold green eyes held hers. Green like the Breach, vacant and transparent.

"Now!" she screamed. The pack focused on her, the demon turned towards her screaming loudly. Gritting her teeth, she concentrated and sent a chain lighting to stop the screaming while Solas locked the beast with winter grasp. Varric waited for it, finishing the demon with his arrows.

"That wasn't hard..." he mumbled.

"Wait," she commanded, straightening her hand.

"Herald," Solas murmured, but she dismissed him with a small shake of the head.

"I know what I am doing." Her voice remained amazingly calm. She maintained eye contact with the wolf and started to slowly back away, waiting, observing the fading green light in the animal's eyes.

"Back away slowly." One step.

"Don't turn your back." The second step.

"Look him in the eyes." Third.

"He will not attack," Fourth.

You are so beautiful, she thought, looking deep at steel eyes.

She smiled to herself when the wolf nonchalantly turned around and disappeared on the other side of the cave.

The others joined him.

"Brighteyes, that was insane," Varric's voice startled her back to reality.

"Was it?" she asked. She stared at the fire but watched Varric out of the corner of her eye. She had never seen him so concern before.

"Herald, it was risky" Solas added as he approached her. "Can I take a look at your leg?"

"Yes," her voice never changed, showed no emotion. And regardless of her choice of words, it was sometimes difficult to tell whether she was excited, bored, or utterly disinterested.

Varric shooked his head, sighing.

"They would not attack us, Storyteller. They were confused, but their behavior was rather a display to intimidate and scare off intruders," she kept her voice sincere, though she didn't want or need to justify herself.

Solas knelt in front of her, running his eyes along her body as if checking for injuries.

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" He looked up at her when she didn't answer.

She shook her head, scanning his face. His fingers circled her calf as healing magic bled into her skin, and she winced as the soft trickle of magic strengthened.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing slim but muscular forearms. This time Falherna let her eyes slowly study the length of his forehead, ears, nose, staying longer on his eyes. He seemed tired, drained of energy.

He caught her staring at him, and when their eyes met, she held his gaze. She didn't care if he saw the concern. In fact, she wanted him to see it.

"The bards would love this one. Andraste's Herald and her brave companions perished by the corrupted wolves," Varric laughed, interrupting the moment that spread between the two mages.

The dwarf took a sip from the bottle she gave him earlier.

She moved to his side and said, "Are you alright?"

"Now I am," he sent her a smile, lifting the bottle. She snorted and patted his shoulder.

"Are you alright, Solas?" She turned her gaze to the elf unfolding his bedroll, his head tilted slightly, so the only thing she could see was his profile.

"Yes, Herald." All he gave her was a short answer. Far less than she expected but she was starting to accustom to it.

"We are all fine, Brighteyes," Varric choked. "The farmers can have a good night sleep. They are safe from the wolves." he mumbled as he turned over on his bedroll and closed his eyes "Goodnight, kids."

"I expect the wolves are also pleased to be freed from the demon's control," Fal smiled hearing those words.

"I am sure they are," she murmured gazing at the fire, unconsciously running her fingers along her calf.

"It will leave a scar," Solas stated casually, and she shook her head in answer. His sudden care seemed so illogical, she irritated him after all. Why did he bother himself with her scars?

"So? It will match the others." Her voice sounded harsher than she intended. She cleared her throat and tried again, "It does not bother me."

She loosed her hair, unwrapping the leather strap, combing it with her fingers. Solas took off his coat and belt as he sat down on the wooden log, and she discreetly observed him in his undershirt. He seemed leaner, taller, humbler, and tired. His eyes met hers, the hair on her hands rose as if the air was filled with electricity. She felt it before, the first time when he took her hand and closed the rift. His eyes stirred up complex silt of emotions in her, feelings she'd rather have left settled.

Falherna turned her gaze to the trees waiting for her companion to fall asleep, but Solas just sit there in silence.

"Solas," she turned to him, tense as his name laid on her lips.

He looked at her "Lavellan," he answered with a low voice.

"Can I join you?"

"Please," he smiled, pointing a place next to him.

She got up, throwing some pieces of wood into the bonfire, and sat beside him but not too close.

"You're a somniari, am I correct?" She caught him by surprise.

"Yes, I am. It's interesting that you know about their existence."

"My father was interested in them." She smiled.

His mouth distracted her, so she focused on her hands.

"Will you tell me about your explorations of the Fade?"

He looked pleasantly bewildered but hesitated, "I will if you answer one question."

She sighed quietly suspecting a question about her past, looks, lack of emotions; questions she had heard before.

"Why were you given the name which is the anagram of 'Fen'harel'? He looked her straight in the eyes.

Nobody asked about it before. Nobody was smart enough to get an idea of what her name really was. He impressed her.

He sat so close she could touch him, her heart was pounding in her chest, and she felt the urge to touch him.

"Tomorrow," she said with her usual manner.

"Tomorrow?" He arched his brow but seemed genuinely interested.

"The story is too long for tonight" she sent him a smile "Well, I wish you a good night," Falherna was ready to stand up and let him be, but his next words stopped her.

"Do you think I will not share my stories with you since you did not answer my question?" He smiled warmly.

"Yes. That was your condition," she chuckled and relaxed sipping water from her skewer. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked at Solas.

"I'll make an exception if you wish," he smiled weakly before his face fell to a more melancholic shape.

"Yes, please," she murmured, looking up at the sky and stars.

Solas looked into the fire "What would you like to hear about, Herald?"

"Old ruins," she answered, simply trying to hide a note of excitement in her voice and disappointment of the fact that he still called her 'Herald'."

"Ah, I found in the Korcari Wilds a humble cottage far removed from any of the simple tribesmen. The trees and weeds had not reclaimed the home, nor did the chasind dare to come and steal the trinkets still remaining. It was empty, long abandoned but the world feared that she might return." he was narrating quietly, each word taking significant effort, his voice scraping against his throat. She could've been mistaken, but she heard a subtle warmth in his voice.

"Flemeth's cottage," she whispered. He said nothing, studying her silently for a moment.

"Your ability to sleep in those places is fascinating," she said, and she really meant it. Her father had the same ability, and it fascinated her too. She even felt jealousy when he was telling her specific stories. Stories about old gods, Arlathan or Fen'Harel.

Solas send her a smile "Thank you. It's not a common field of science, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything."

"I'd like to know more about you," She untucked two of the chess pieces from the velvet-lined bag and gave Solas one.

He took it silently, his jaw clenching tightly before he looked at her "Why?"

"There's no other motivation besides my will to know something about you, Solas," she studied him carefully, speaking calmly as if he was a small child.

"I am sorry. With so much fear in the air... What would you know of me?" he seemed relaxed again, but something in him was off.

He is lying, she realized.

"What made you start studying the Fade?" she regained her composure quickly, meeting Solas' gaze.

"I grew up in the village to the North. There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic. But as I slept, Spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. I treasured my dreams. Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome."

"The same can be told about being in the Fade."

He didn't respond, but she could feel him watching her, examining her response.

"Did spirits try to tempt you?" she looked at him out of the corner of her eye digging her teeth into the last piece of cheese.

"No more than a brightly colored fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself from more aggressive spirits and how to interact safely with the rest. I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness. There was so much I wanted to explore," Solas' voice was dry, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his gaze was locked on her.

"I gather you didn't spend your entire life dreaming."

"No, eventually I was unable to find new areas in the Fade."

"Why?" she knew the answer to that question, asked years ago in a different place by a small girl who sat next to her father with wide and innocent eyes.

Truthfully she wanted Solas to continue, to hear his voice.

"Two reasons. First, the Fade reflects the world around it. Unless I traveled, I would never find anything new. Second, the Fade reflects and is limited by our imaginations. To find interesting areas, one must be interesting."

"You must be very interesting then."

Surprise flashed across his face, transforming his features.

Falherna's brows furrowed "Considering how many areas you have visited, Solas. Is this why you joined the Inquisition?"

"I joined the Inquisition because we were all in terrible danger. If our enemies destroyed the world, I would have nowhere to lay my head while dreaming of the Fade."

"Ah, yes, we all view the world through the prism of our selfishness," she whispered, liking that hesitant delight in Solas' eyes every time she caught him off-guard.

"That is a surprising acknowledgment from one so young."

She laughed, "Of course for you, it is."

For a while, she studied his face, his mouth opening, and closing, mind searching for an answer. It was amusing, but she decided to change the subject.

"I wish you luck," she said, poking the fire with a stick.

"Thank you. In truth, I have enjoyed experiencing more of life to find more of the Fade." he smiled.

"How so?"

"You train your will to control magic and withstand possession. Your indomitable focus is an enjoyable side benefit."

She winced, What was that? Indomitable focus? What was he trying to do?

It wasn't what she expected from him.

"You have chosen a path whose steps you do not dislike because it leads to a destination you enjoy. As have I." She held his gaze, conflicted inside.

"True," she agreed. "Indomitable focus?" The question was a simple result of her curiosity and intention to understand his words correctly. He spoke strangely, using metaphors and anachronisms.

"Presumably. I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be... fascinating." he said, his voice lowered.

She almost snorted but remained still and emotionless. Silence spread between them, and there was an awkward tension in the look he gave her. She handed him the water, he nodded and took it. Their fingers met, the mark awoke, vibrating. She sent him a curious gaze, seeing his eyes were tight as he stared down at her mark.

As if nothing happened, she withdrew her hand, clenching and unclenching it. A small puff of wind touched her cheeks, brushing nearby bushes. She looked that way. Solas stilled for a moment, eyes scanning, seemingly trying to sense something.

"Da'len," he whispered suddenly, "I am convinced your wolf found you."

The hair on the back of her neck rose as she scanned the dark.

She smiled, seeing him, her wolf hidden by a tree, looking straight into her eyes.

[theodinsonsonmidgard]

Sons of Odin (Swords in the Wind).

A few days have passed, and Thor ... Thor continues to elude me. He's not angry with me, ... strangely, I didn't irritate him that much. The stranger with the clenched jaw is still there, and the Norns know how much I would like to punch him to force him to stop. But, damn, I'm not Volstagg, ... and anyway that's not an intruder full of shadows and silences. It's Thor. And he's my brother. Every now and then, in these days of strange tension, I observe him when he doesn't notice it, ... maybe while he's playing Final Fantasy as an ecstatic child, or while trying to relax listening to music with earphones. "Those magic ones", he calls them, because they are without hindrances and without threads (yes, he learned to use them, and he does it instinctively because he always fears that my migraine is devouring my brain ...) ... and sometimes it seems to me that he has returned. Thor. The one who always smiled and didn't get one right. As if the stranger, swollen with anger and holding him hostage, from time to time loosens his grip and lets him breathe. And then I'd like to talk to him. I would like to sit with him, not give a damn about the stranger and force him to look me in the eyes. But I can't. I always seem to hurt him. I do not want to take initiatives that may hurts him. It is a large and thick, muscular creature, endowed with prodigious strength, ... and in this moment more fragile than a shard of crystal. Gods, ... if someone, only a few winters ago, had told me that I would live to see the God of Thunder in such state, .. I, Loki, returned from the realm of death more broken than before, ... I would have laughed at him face and banged against a wall to shut him up. Sometimes Thor opens his mouth as if he were ready to tell me who knows what truth, ... then he stops, grumbles something and does something else. Or as he walks around the house I feel his strong grip on my shoulder, and I turn in time to see him pass by without a word. Only with a distant and sad smile. And I would like to show myself in all my divine aspect because that gloomy stranger who keeps me away from him, collapses on his knees at my feet and I can disintegrate him at a glance. Now Thor is sleeping on the couch. One step away from me. I watch him. I can't do anything for him. Anything...? I am Loki, the God of Mischief, Illusions and Words. Many people seem to forget it, around here. The word "nothing" makes me grin, and tingle with seidr like a mug of  fresh cider. "Nothing" has no meaning for me. I look at the stereo in the living room. I look at Thor. I get up and go look for a CD, in all his mess. I open the drawer and make it start. Then I sit on the floor, my back against Thor's side, stretched out, ... and I let the music start spreading, soft as leaves rustling in the wind.

Storm in the Wind.

I throw my head back, and lean on him, then i close my eyes and tell Thor the music I'm listening to. And that brings me back there. To the damn, wonderful Asgard. When I wasn't even twenty. I go into my brother's mind, gently, as if I were holding a small child ... a frightened, tired, angry mind. But I smile and start whispering. Snow among the fir branches, ... rustling of the forest, flights of white owls, ... this is my voice in the mind of the God of Thunder, my brother.

"Do you hear it, Thor? Come, ... look. Do you feel it? Do you smell this scent? Snow. Snow under our boots, ... snow in our hair. We're home. Feel the scent of the resin it stings your nose? The cold that throws you pins in your face. You chew curses against that cold, but I ignore it and go on. It's night, deep and bright, ... snow is frozen diamond dust. White, dazzling. We are in the woods, we follow a river. There are men with us, ... our warriors. There is Fandral, wrapped in bear fur, ... there is Volstagg but he cannot move silently and the others reproach him. But we have detached them. We are the Sons of Odin, and we do not wait for anyone. The air is sharp, the eyes of curious beasts scrutinize us by darkening fir trees. Did you like the fir, do you remember it, Thor? ... You said that the fir tree, big, dark and severe, reminded us of our father. We also wear the no-frills clothes of the warriors of our lands. The Midgardians think that we always moved dressed as dandies on parade ... " I laughed " ... evidently they never hunted the bear on the Summer Solstice, or pursued assassins in the mountains ... "

The song goes on, epic, majestic. I paint images of words, always with my eyes closed, always in Thor's mind, always next to him. If there is a stranger, the one with the dark look, who feels hunted in a corner, chewing bitterly! Now I'm here, with my brother.

"What are we hunting for, Thor? What made us leave the palace, for the snow of the fir woods? Marauders? Assassins? Trolls? Horrible creatures from other worlds? I don't know, brother ... you decide what your eyes, but above all your your heart wants to see ... but know that we will take it, that we have it in our hand, because we are the Sons of Odin, and the fire of battle burns in our blood. Do you remember, Thor? When you left Mjollnir at palace and made incursions outside, armed only with a sword, because you said that 'Thor is not Mjollnir, but the arm that holds him!' ... and therefore you also loved the blades of the Asgardian smiths. What are we hunting, Thor? The snow bows under our boots, and the furs tickle our face, moved by a thin steel wind. What are we hunting? Is he the stranger who came from who knows where, and who possesses your soul like a suit not his? Is he the one we follow in the thick of the fir forest accompanied by foxes and blue-eyed wolves? Smell the air, Thor ... what are you feeling? What brings you the wind that smells like snow? Did you hear that? Is that where he hides? You found him? We will fight, brother, ... always side by side, draw the sword, he's no longer be far away. I wield the yew wooden bow with shades of purple flames, and nock a long black-pinned arrow. Remember when I was fighting with the bow? I was amused by the fact that everyone laughed at that weapon but then they fell silent when they saw how deadly it was. IF ... they came alive to see it. Men are far away. This is our hunt, our battle. Click bent forward, silent as a panther, ... you wave me to do the same. It's there, isn't it? It is that dark shadow, the one we want, the one we will laugh at when it has been defeated. That is the shadow we are hunting. The one you want. I tend to bow, grit my teeth and don't even waste time aiming: I let go of the string of tendon, the arrow runs and cuts through the air ... I get him, brother, ... I have him! Now run, run, and sing the ancient song of steel. Defeat your enemy like your ancestors did, under that black silk sky. Run, Son of Odin and take your revenge. I reach you, while my nostrils are already attacked by the ferrous smell of blood. But I know that he can never be yours, big brother, ... where is the enemy, if not at your feet? At our feet, Sons of Odin, feared, revered, ... Sons of Gods of War. You are this, brother, do you remember? ... We are this. Despite our unfortunate lives, despite everything. Gods of War, ancient and almost immortal, made to fight. We also won this time, Thor ... we hug each other, regardless of the enemy's blood on our hands, ... we speak a harsh language, made of iron, and we laugh because this is our life, and we are invincible and intoxicated with youthness. Do you hear it, Thor? Do you feel it, the snow? Look up there, Son of Odin, ... watch the sky burn with green and pink, ... snow become magic. Do you see, the fire of the Gods burning the northern sky? This is what we were, this is what we are. Gods. Warriors. Sorcerers. You will also win this battle, and even if you think you are alone, you are not. You have your ancestors, Thor son of Odin, son of Bor of the First Gods. You have your blood, you have your inner fire. And you have me. Which I'm not fire. I am your brother, not of blood but of love. And I will take this hunt with you, and we will win, as always. The Sons of Odin, Thor ... the Sons of Odin ... "

It was a powerful and evocative song. Words flow by themselves, perhaps aided by the seidr, perhaps only by despair and love for Thor. I let the last bit of music vanish in the air ... taking away the snow, the iron wind, the dark fir trees and the blades of green fire in the black sky of the North. I open my eyes, stunned. I missed the smell of snow. I throw my head up, I run my hand over my face and then I get up and look at Thor, asleep. "Sleep, brother. You are a warrior, ... sleep because your battle is full of strength."  I throw a blanket over him  "I am here. Always. Even with my silence. Because the Sons of Odin are like the fingers of one hand ... each one for himself, but who clench in a lethal fist to defeat their enemies. Like once, Thor. Like once ..."

[ren-c-leyn]

This fun little short story was inspired by @leopard-prompts​ ‘s writing prompt, here. Now, it’s a comedy and not meant to ruffle the feathers of any of my fellow writers.

 Funny things happen when you work with an overly eccentric writer and a camera. You can get woken up before the crack of dawn to poetic ramblings and the smell of cheap coffee. You could find plane tickets and a copy of your contract laying on the floor from when they had been stuffed into your letterbox in the middle of the night. You may occasionally be standing outside of a bathroom in a foreign country, listening to them call themselves a terrible person for getting a phrase wrong in the local language.

 Something kept me coming back, though. I think maybe it has to do with all of the amazing shots of places I’d never have gone by myself... or maybe it’s the weirdness that is the eccentric writer. Actually, I think it’s a combination of both.

 I’ve seen many strange and beautiful things in my travels, but none more than the lines of prose, strings of poetry, and epic tales I find on paper mere weeks after I’ve snapped the perfect shot. Inspiration, he calls it. I’m on the fence about whether I want to call it amazing or insanity.

 This morning, I found myself leaning a little closer to the insanity line as I stood in the airport for at least the dozenth time since new years. I didn’t even know where I was going. I’m sure the ticket said, but I didn’t want to look. I glanced at my watch as I stood in the line. He was insane. What kind of crazy person books a flight for just before dawn....

 Oh, that’s right, he does. Something about how the rising sun catches on the silvery wings of the plane. I’m sure it sounded prettier the way he said it, but I was in an airport. Pretty didn’t exist here. In fact, I was pretty sure pretty was outlawed in this otherwise lawless building.

 By the time I had gotten through customs and wormed my way to my seat on the plane, I was in a decently fowl mood. It wasn’t made any better by the out of tune humming coming from the seat beside me. He was tone-deaf. We both knew it, and yet he still insisted on humming. He also insisted on sitting next to the window and leaving me to be smacked in the face by everyone’s bags as they passed us by.

 “You know, Cedric, I think maybe we should either turn your tour of Europe for research into one long trip, or maybe space them out a bit more....”

 “But the characters haven’t finished telling me where they’re all going through their war torn world. Besides, is it really so bad to break away from the norm every few weeks? Go see lands we haven’t walked before? Retrace the steps of our ancestors and try to see the land as they once had? To imagine the dragons they must have seen and the terrors they survived? To stroll through the fields they masters and the forests they had not?”

 “I don’t mind a break from normal, but airports are starting to turn into my normal and that’s not a normal I wish on anyone.”

 Cedric, the eccentric writer that had hired me and my camera, laughed.

 “I can’t say I blame you, Wyatt. Airports are only good for the endings of romantic stories and the beginnings of comedic ones.... Or perhaps the basis for a murder mystery, as foul of a mood as everyone is always in.”

 I laughed softly. Yeah, that would be a book I would read in a heartbeat.

 “So you see my point?”

 “No, because the airports are only a small amount of our time spent. The rest of it is rediscovering the past and capturing inspiration on camera.”

 “... Right.”

 I decided to leave the conversation there, though he had touched up on the real part of my new normal that actually had me concerned. During our three week trip through the countryside of France, it had managed to elude us, to my delight. I snapped photos of wildlife, old building, scenery, everything beautiful and occasionally not-so-beautiful, if Cedric requested it.

 I let my guard down against that one, horrible inconvenience, and that’s when it decided to strike. Driving down roads we had never been before, we must have missed a turn, or a sign, or something indicating the way back to the town where we were staying. A fact that eluded us until a few hours after we should have been back.

 “Um, Wyatt....”

 “What?”

 “Before I continue this conversation, I just want you to know that this is more of a plot twist than anything. Think of it as a grand adventure of life’s design just for us....”

 “What did you you do this time?”

 “I didn’t do it, you see. We did it and....”

 “What did you do?”

 “I think we’re lost.”

 “Oh, come on! Not again!”

 “Like I said, it’s a plot twist. Unfortunately our writer doesn’t seem to be too creative, using the same old ones on us all of the time. Airports, beautiful scenery, getting lost, why not mix in lost luggage once or twice to keep it interesting?”

 “Absolutely not! The airports and getting lost are bad enough without my belongings.”

 “Why are you freaking out? We can handle this. Life has written this scene down for us so many times getting unlost should be second nature to us! We shall never be stranded like dear Robinson Crusoe.”

 “At least he didn’t have to deal with airports....”

 “Be silent negitivity and watch as I return us to our lodgings!”

 Did he return us to our lodgings? Of course not. What he did manage to do was get us even more lost than we originally were, run our rental car out of gas, and leave us without a method to call for help since he ran mine out of battery earlier today.

 I leaned against the back window of the car, sitting outside on the trunk. Silently, I stared at the stars. Something I noticed in our travels, the stars always looked more beautiful away from the city lights. I pulled my camera up to my eyes and started snapping photos while the eccentric writer sulked in the car.

 “You should get out and look at these stars. Might hit you with some inspiration.”

 There was no answer, but a while later there was the soft click of a car door. Then, there was the clicking of boots on pavement.

 “They aren’t as glorious as the ones we saw the first shoot.”

 “Nope, but they’re still brighter than any back home.”

 “Yet you’d rather be at home instead of in our plot twist?”

 I snorted.

 “You said so yourself, our lives are written by a lazy hack if this is the best plot twist they can come up with. I’d rather stay at home until something more creative comes along.”

 “Then maybe I should set my next story somewhere more interesting.”

 “Japan?”

 “Samurai drama?”

 “Why not?”

 “Why not South America? Tales of lost peoples and struggles through the untamed wilds?”

 “Two words, poisonous snakes.”

 He snorted.

 “Wouldn’t that be a more interesting plot twist?”

 “Not if I die from it.”

 We bounced locations back and fourth for the rest of the night. The stars may not have been the best we’d ever seen, but that sunrise certainly was. I don’t know how many pictures of it I took, but I think the one with the laughing tow-truck driver and Cedric’s raccoon impersonation was my favorite.

 Maybe I’ll never know why I agreed to travel with a writer and take photos of random places, people, and things to inspire their work. I do know three things, though. Airports suck, Cedric will always get us lost and still insist on driving, and something interesting would always come of the insanity later....

 Like the five page copy of a story proposal I found laying on the floor, about a murder mystery story set in an airport, less than a week after our return and the disappearance of Cedric’s luggage.

[blackkudos]

Octavia Butler

Octavia Estelle Butler (June 22, 1947 – February 24, 2006) was an American science fiction writer. A multiple recipient of both the Hugo and Nebula awards, Butler was one of the best-known women in the field. In 1995, she became the first science fiction writer to receive the MacArthur Fellowship, nicknamed the "Genius Grant".

Early life

Octavia Estelle Butler was born on June 22, 1947, in Pasadena, California, the only child of Octavia Margaret Guy, a housemaid, and Laurice James Butler, a shoeshine man. Butler's father died when she was seven, so Octavia was raised by her mother and maternal grandmother in what she would later recall as a strict Baptist environment.

Growing up in the racially integrated community of Pasadena allowed Butler to experience cultural and ethnic diversity in the midst of racial segregation. She accompanied her mother to her cleaning work and witnessed her entering white people's houses through back doors. Her mother was treated poorly by her employers.

From an early age, an almost paralyzing shyness made it difficult for Butler to socialize with other children. Her awkwardness, paired with a slight dyslexia that made schoolwork a torment, led her to believe that she was "ugly and stupid, clumsy, and socially hopeless," becoming an easy target for bullies. As a result, she frequently passed the time reading at the Pasadena Public Library and writing reams and reams of pages in her "big pink notebook". Hooked at first on fairy tales and horse stories, she quickly became interested in science fiction magazines such as Amazing Stories (aka Amazing), Galaxy Science Fiction (aka Galaxy), and The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and began reading stories by John Brunner, Zenna Henderson, and Theodore Sturgeon.

At age 10, she begged her mother to buy her a Remington typewriter on which she "pecked [her] stories two fingered". At 12, watching the televised version of the film Devil Girl from Mars (1954) convinced her she could write a better story, so she drafted what would later become the basis for her Patternist novels. Happily ignorant of the obstacles that a black female writer could encounter, she became unsure of herself for the first time at the age of 13, when her well-intentioned aunt Hazel conveyed the realities of segregation in five words: "Honey ... Negroes can't be writers." Nevertheless, Butler persevered in her desire to publish a story, even asking her junior high school science teacher, Mr. Pfaff, to type the first manuscript she submitted to a science fiction magazine.

After graduating from John Muir High School in 1965, Butler worked during the day and attended Pasadena City College (PCC) at night. As a freshman at PCC, she won a college-wide short story contest, earning her first income ($15) as a writer. She also got the "germ of the idea" for what would become her best-selling novel, Kindred, when a young African American classmate involved in the Black Power Movement loudly criticized previous generations of African Americans for being subservient to whites. As she explained in later interviews, the young man's remarks instigated her to respond with a story that would give historical context to that shameful subservience so that it could be understood as silent but courageous survival. In 1968, Butler graduated from PCC with an associate of arts degree with a focus in History.

Rise to success

Even though Butler's mother wanted her to become a secretary with a steady income, Butler continued to work at a series of temporary jobs, preferring the kind of mindless work that would allow her to get up at two or three in the morning to write. Success continued to elude her, as an absence of useful criticism led her to style her stories after the white-and-male-dominated science fiction she had grown up reading. She enrolled at California State University, Los Angeles, but then switched to taking writing courses through UCLA Extension.

During the Open Door Workshop of the Screenwriters' Guild of America, West, a program designed to mentor minority writers, her writing impressed one of the teachers, noted science-fiction writer Harlan Ellison. He encouraged her to attend the six-week Clarion Science Fiction Writers Workshop in Clarion, Pennsylvania. There, Butler met the writer and later longtime friend Samuel R. Delany. She also sold her first stories: "Child Finder" to Ellison, for his anthology The Last Dangerous Visions (still unpublished), and "Crossover" to Robin Scott Wilson, the director of Clarion, who published it in the 1971 Clarion anthology.

For the next five years, Butler worked on the series of novels that later become known as the Patternist series: Patternmaster (1976), Mind of My Mind (1977), and Survivor (1978). In 1978, she was finally able to stop working at temporary jobs and live on her writing. She took a break from the Patternist series to research and write Kindred (1979), and then finished the series with Wild Seed (1980) and Clay's Ark (1984).

Butler's rise to prominence began in 1984 when "Speech Sounds" won the Hugo Award for Short Story and, a year later, Bloodchild won the Hugo Award, the Locus Award, and the Science Fiction Chronicle Reader Award for Best Novelette. In the meantime, Butler traveled to the Amazon rainforest and the Andes to do research for what would become the Xenogenesis trilogy: Dawn (1987), Adulthood Rites (1988), and Imago (1989). These stories were republished in 2000 as the collection Lilith's Brood.

During the 1990s, Butler worked on the novels that solidified her fame as a writer: Parable of the Sower (1993) and Parable of the Talents (1998). In 1995, she became the first science-fiction writer to be awarded a John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation fellowship, an award that came with a prize of $295,000.

In 1999, after her mother's death, Butler moved to Lake Forest Park, Washington. The Parable of the Talents had won the Science Fiction Writers of America's Nebula Award for Best Science Novel and she had plans for four more Parable novels: Parable of the Trickster, Parable of the Teacher, Parable of Chaos, and Parable of Clay. However, after several failed attempts to begin The Parable of the Trickster, she decided to stop work in the series. In later interviews, Butler explained that the research and writing of the Parable novels had overwhelmed and depressed her, so she had shifted to composing something "lightweight" and "fun" instead. This became her last book, the science-fiction vampire novel Fledgling (2005).

Writing career

Early stories, Patternist series, and Kindred: 1971–1984

Butler's first work published was Crossover in the 1971 Clarion Workshop anthology. She also sold the short story Childfinder to Harlan Ellison for the anthology The Last Dangerous Visions. "I thought I was on my way as a writer," Butler recalled in her short fiction collection Bloodchild and Other Stories. "In fact, I had five more years of rejection slips and horrible little jobs ahead of me before I sold another word."

Starting in 1974, Butler worked on a series of novels that would later be collected as the Patternist series, which depicts the transformation of humanity into three genetic groups: the dominant Patternists, humans who have been bred with heightened telepathic powers and are bound to the Patternmaster via a psionic chain; their enemies the Clayarks, disease-mutated animal-like superhumans; and the Mutes, ordinary humans bonded to the Patternists.

The first novel, Patternmaster (1976), eventually became the last installment in the series' internal chronology. Set in the distant future, it tells of the coming-of-age of Teray, a young Patternist who fights for position within Patternist society and eventually for the role of Patternmaster.

Next came Mind of My Mind (1977), a prequel to Patternmaster set in the twentieth century. The story follows the development of Mary, the creator of the psionic chain and the first Patternmaster to bind all Patternists, and her inevitable struggle for power with her father Doro, a parapsychological vampire who seeks to retain control over the psionic children he has bred over the centuries.

The third book of the series, Survivor, was published in 1978. The titular survivor is Alanna, the adopted child of the Missionaries, fundamentalist Christians who have traveled to another planet to escape Patternist control and Clayark infection. Captured by a local tribe called the Tehkohn, Alanna learns their language and adopts their customs, knowledge which she then uses to help the Missionaries avoid bondage and assimilation into a rival tribe that opposes the Tehkohn.

After Survivor, Butler took a break from the Patternist series to write what would become her best-selling novel, Kindred (1979) as well as the short story "Near of Kin" (1979). In Kindred, Dana, an African American woman, is transported from 1976 Los Angeles to early nineteenth century Maryland. She meets her ancestors: Rufus, a white slave holder, and Alice, a black freewoman forced into slavery later in life. In "Near of Kin" the protagonist discovers a taboo relationship in her family as she goes through her mother's things after her death.

In 1980, Butler published the fourth book of the Patternist series, Wild Seed, whose narrative became the series' origin story. Set in Africa and America during the seventeenth century, Wild Seed traces the struggle between the four-thousand-year-old parapsychological vampire Doro and his "wild" child and bride, the three-hundred-year-old shapeshifter and healer Anyanwu. Doro, who has bred psionic children for centuries, deceives Anyanwu into becoming one of his breeders, but she eventually escapes and uses her gifts to create communities that rival Doro's. When Doro finally tracks her down, Anyanwu, tired by decades of escaping or fighting Doro, decides to commit suicide, forcing him to admit his need for her.

In 1983, Butler published "Speech Sounds," a story set in a post-apocalyptic Los Angeles where a pandemic has caused most humans to lose their ability to read, speak, or write. For many, this impairment is accompanied by uncontrollable feelings of jealousy, resentment, and rage. "Speech Sounds" received the 1984 Hugo Award for Best Short Story.

In 1984, Butler released the last book of the Patternmaster series, Clay's Ark. Set in the Mojave Desert, it focuses on a colony of humans infected by an extraterrestrial microorganism brought to Earth by the one surviving astronaut of the spaceship Clay's Ark. As the microorganism compels them to spread it, they kidnap ordinary people to infect them and, in the case of women, give birth to the mutant, sphinx-like children who will be the first members of the Clayark race.

Bloodchild and the Xenogenesis trilogy: 1984–1989

Butler followed Clay's Ark with the critically acclaimed short story "Bloodchild" (1984). Set on an alien planet, it depicts the complex relationship between human refugees and the insect-like aliens who keep them in a preserve to protect them, but also to use them as hosts for breeding their young. Sometimes called Butler's "pregnant man story," "Bloodchild" won the Nebula, Hugo, and Locus Awards, and the Science Fiction Chronicle Reader Award.

Three years later, Butler published Dawn, the first installment of what would become known as the Xenogenesis trilogy. The series examines the theme of alienation by creating situations in which humans are forced to coexist with other species to survive and extends Butler's recurring exploration of genetically-altered, hybrid individuals and communities. In Dawn, protagonist Lilith Iyapo finds herself in a spaceship after surviving a nuclear apocalypse that destroys Earth. Saved by the Oankali aliens, the human survivors must combine their DNA with an ooloi, the Oankali's third sex, in order to create a new race that eliminates a self-destructive flaw in humans—their aggressive hierarchical tendencies. Butler followed Dawn with "The Evening and the Morning and the Night" (1987), a story about how certain female sufferers of "Duryea-Gode Disease," a genetic disorder which causes dissociative states, obsessive self-mutilation, and violent psychosis, are able to control others afflicted with the disease.

Adulthood Rites (1988) and Imago (1989) the second and the third books in the Xenogenesis trilogy, focus on the predatory and prideful tendencies that affect human evolution, as humans now revolt against Lilith's Oankali-engineered progeny. Set thirty years after humanity's return to Earth, Adulthood Rites centers on the kidnapping of Lilith's part-human, part alien child, Akin, by a human-only group who are against the Oankali. Akin learns about both aspects of his identity through his life with the humans as well as the Akjai. The Oankali-only group becomes their mediator, and ultimately creates a human-only colony in Mars. In Imago, the Oankali create a third species more powerful than themselves: the shape-shifting healer Jodahs, a human-Oankali ooloi who must find suitable human male and female mates to survive its metamorphosis and finds them in the most unexpected of places, in a village of renegade humans.

The Parable series: 1993–1998

In the mid-1990s, Butler published two novels later designated as the Parable (or Earthseed) series. The books depict the struggle of the Earthseed community to survive the socioeconomic and political collapse of twenty-first century America due to poor environmental stewardship, corporate greed, and the growing gap between the wealthy and the poor. The books propose alternate philosophical views and religious interventions as solutions to such dilemmas.

The first book in the series, Parable of the Sower (1993), features a fifteen-year-old protagonist named Lauren Oya Olamina, and is set in a dystopian California in the 2020s. Lauren, who suffers from a syndrome causing her to literally feel any physical pain she witnesses, decides to escape the corruption and corporatization of her community of Robledo. She forms a new belief system, Earthseed, in order to prepare for the future of the human race on another planet. Recruiting members of varying social backgrounds, Lauren relocates her new group to Northern California, naming her new community "Earthseed".

Her 1998 follow-up novel, Parable of the Talents, is set sometime after Lauren's death and is told through the excerpts of Lauren's journals as framed by the commentary of her estranged daughter, Larkin. It details the takeover of Earthseed by right-wing fundamentalist Christians, Lauren's attempts to survive their religious "re-education", and the final triumph of Earthseed as a community and a doctrine.

In between her Earthseed novels, Butler published the collection Bloodchild and Other Stories (1995), which includes the short stories "Bloodchild", "The Evening and the Morning and the Night", "Near of Kin", "Speech Sounds", and "Crossover", as well as the non-fiction pieces "Positive Obsession" and "Furor Scribendi".

Late stories and Fledgling: 2003–2005

After several years of suffering from writer's block, Butler published the short stories "Amnesty" (2003) and "The Book of Martha" (2003), and her second standalone novel, Fledgling (2005). Both short stories focus on how impossible conditions force an ordinary woman to make a distressing choice. In "Amnesty", an alien abductee recounts her painful abuse at the hand of the unwitting aliens, and upon her release, by humans, and explains why she chose to work as a translator for the aliens now that the Earth's economy is in a deep depression. In "The Book of Martha", God asks a middle-aged African American novelist to make one important change to fix humanity's destructive ways. Martha's choice—to make humans have vivid and satisfying dreams—means that she will no longer be able to do what she loves, writing fiction. These two stories were added to the 2005 edition of Bloodchild and Other Stories.

Butler's last publication during her lifetime was Fledgling, a novel exploring the culture of a vampire community living in mutualistic symbiosis with humans. Set on the West Coast, it tells of the coming-of-age of a young female hybrid vampire whose species is called Ina. The only survivor of a vicious attack on her families that left her an amnesiac, she must seek justice for her dead, build a new family, and relearn how to be Ina.

Butler bequeathed her papers including manuscripts, correspondence, school papers, notebooks, and photographs to the Huntington Library.

Themes

The critique of present-day hierarchies

In multiple interviews and essays, Butler explained her view of humanity as inherently flawed by an innate tendency towards hierarchical thinking which leads to intolerance, violence and, if not checked, the ultimate destruction of our species.

"Simple peck-order bullying", she wrote in her essay "A World without Racism," "is only the beginning of the kind of hierarchical behavior that can lead to racism, sexism, ethnocentrism, classism, and all the other 'isms' that cause so much suffering in the world." Her stories, then, often replay humanity's domination of the weak by the strong as a type of parasitism. These superior beings, whether aliens, vampires, superhuman, or a slave masters, find themselves defied by a protagonist who embodies difference, diversity, and change, so that, as John R. Pfeiffer notes "[i]n one sense [Butler's] fables are trials of solutions to the self-destructive condition in which she finds mankind."

The remaking of the human

In his essay on the sociobiological backgrounds of Butler's Xenogenesis trilogy, J. Adam Johns describes how Butler's narratives counteract the death drive behind the hierarchical impulse with an innate love of life (biophilia), particularly different, strange life. Specifically, Butler's stories feature gene manipulation, interbreeding, miscegenation, symbiosis, mutation, alien contact, non-consensual sex, contamination, and other forms of hybridity as the means to correct the sociobiological causes of hierarchical violence. As De Witt Douglas Kilgore and Ranu Samantrai note, "[i]n [Butler's] narratives the undoing of the human body is both literal and metaphorical, for it signifies the profound changes necessary to shape a world not organized by hierarchical violence." The evolutionary maturity achieved by the bioengineered hybrid protagonist at the end of the story, then, signals the possible evolution of the dominant community in terms of tolerance, acceptance of diversity, and a desire to wield power responsibly.

The survivor as hero

Butler's protagonists are disenfranchised individuals who endure, compromise, and embrace radical change in order to survive. As De Witt Douglas Kilgore and Ranu Samantrai note, her stories focus on minority characters whose historical background makes them already intimate with brutal violation and exploitation, and therefore the need to compromise to survive. Even when endowed with extra abilities, these characters are forced to experience unprecedented physical, mental, and emotional distress and exclusion to ensure a minimal degree of agency and to prevent humanity from achieving self-destruction. In many stories, their acts of courage become acts of understanding, and in some cases, love, as they reach a crucial compromise with those in power. Ultimately, Butler's focus on disenfranchised characters serves to illustrate both the historical exploitation of minorities and how the resolve of one such exploited individual may bring on critical change.

The creation of alternative communities

Butler's stories feature mixed communities founded by African protagonists and populated by diverse, if similar-minded individuals. Members may be humans of African, European, or Asian descent, extraterrestrial (such as the N'Tlic in "Bloodchild"), from a different species (such as the vampiric Ina in Fledgling), and cross-species (such as the human-Oankali Akin and Jodahs in the Xenogenesis trilogy). In some stories, the community's hybridity results in a flexible view of sexuality and gender (for instance, the polyamorous extended families in Fledgling). Thus, Butler creates bonds between groups that are generally considered to be separate and unrelated, and suggests hybridity as "the potential root of good family and blessed community life."

Relationship to Afrofuturism

Butler's work has been associated with the genre of Afrofuturism, a term coined by Mark Dery to describe "speculative fiction that treats African-American themes and addresses African-American concerns in the context of 20th-century technoculture." Some critics, however, have noted that while Butler's protagonists are of African descent, the communities they create are multi-ethnic and, sometimes, multi-species. As De Witt Douglas Kilgore and Ranu Samantrai explain in their 2010 memorial to Butler, while Butler does offer "an afro-centric sensibility at the core of narratives," her "insistence on hybridity beyond the point of discomfort" exceeds the tenets of both black cultural nationalism and of "white-dominated" liberal pluralism.

Influence

In interviews with Charles Rowell and Randall Kenan, Butler credited the struggles of her working-class mother as an important influence on her writing. Because Butler's mother received little formal education herself, she made sure that young Butler was given the opportunity to learn by bringing her reading materials that her white employers threw away, from magazines to advanced books. She also encouraged Butler to write. She bought her daughter her first typewriter when she was ten years old, and, seeing her hard at work on a story, casually remarked that maybe one day she could become a writer, causing Butler to realize that it was possible to make a living as an author. A decade later, Mrs. Butler would pay more than a month's rent to have an agent review her daughter's work. She also provided Butler with the money she had been saving for dental work to pay for Butler's scholarship so she could attend the Clarion Science Fiction Writers Workshop, where Butler sold her first two stories.

A second person to play an influential role in Butler's work was American writer Harlan Ellison. As a teacher at the Open Door Workshop of the Screen Writers Guild of America, he gave Butler her first honest and constructive criticism on her writing after years of lukewarm responses from composition teachers and baffling rejections from publishers. Impressed by her work, Ellison suggested she attend the Clarion Science Fiction Writers Workshop, and even contributed $100 towards her application fee. As the years passed, Ellison's mentorship became a close friendship.

Point of view

Butler began reading science fiction at a young age, but quickly became disenchanted by the genre's unimaginative portrayal of ethnicity and class as well as by its lack of noteworthy female protagonists. She then set to correct those gaps by, as De Witt Douglas Kilgore and Ranu Samantrai point out, "choosing to write self-consciously as an African-American woman marked by a particular history" —what Butler termed as "writing myself in". Butler's stories, therefore, are usually written from the perspective of a marginalized black woman whose difference from the dominant agents increases her potential for reconfiguring the future of her society.

Audience

Publishers and critics have labelled Butler's work as science fiction. While Butler enjoyed the genre deeply, calling it "potentially the freest genre in existence", she resisted being branded a genre writer. Many critics have pointed out that her narratives have drawn attention of people from varied ethnic and cultural backgrounds. She claimed to have three loyal audiences: black readers, science-fiction fans, and feminists.

Interviews

Charlie Rose interviewed Octavia Butler in 2000 soon after the award of a MacArthur Fellowship. The highlights are probing questions that arise out of Butler's personal life narrative and her interest in becoming not only a writer, but a writer of science fiction. Rose asked, "What then is central to what you want to say about race?" Butler's response was, "Do I want to say something central about race? Aside from, 'Hey we're here!'?" This points to an essential claim for Butler that the world of science fiction is a world of possibilities, and although race is an innate element, it is embedded in the narrative, not forced upon it.

In an interview by Randall Kenan, Octavia E. Butler discusses how her life experiences as a child shaped most of her thinking. As a writer, Butler was able to use her writing as a vehicle to critique history under the lenses of feminism. In the interview, she discusses the research that had to be done in order to write her bestselling novel, Kindred. Most of it is based on visiting libraries as well as historic landmarks with respect to what she is investigating. Butler admits that she writes science fiction because she does not want her work to be labeled or used as a marketing tool. She wants the readers to be genuinely interested in her work and the story she provides, but at the same time she fears that people will not read her work because of the "science fiction" label that they have.

Adaptations

Parable of the Sower was adapted as Parable of the Sower: The Concert Version, a work-in-progress opera written by American folk/blues musician Toshi Reagon in collaboration with her mother, singer and composer Bernice Johnson Reagon. The adaptation's libretto and musical score combine African-American spirituals, soul, rock and roll, and folk music into rounds to be performed by singers sitting in a circle. It was performed as part of The Public Theater's 2015 Under the Radar Festival in New York City.

Awards and honors

Winner:

2012: Solstice Award

2010: Inducted by the Science Fiction Hall of Fame

2005: Langston Hughes Medal of The City College

2000: Lifetime Achievement Award in Writing from the PEN American Center

1999: Nebula Award for Best Novel – Parable of the Talents

1995: John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation "Genius" Grant

1988: Science Fiction Chronicle Award for Best Novelette – "The Evening and the Morning and the Night"

1985: Locus Award for Best Novelette – "Bloodchild"

1985: Hugo Award for Best Novelette – "Bloodchild"

1985: Science Fiction Chronicle Award for Best Novelette – "Bloodchild"

1984: Nebula Award for Best Novelette – "Bloodchild"

1984: Hugo Award for Best Short Story – "Speech Sounds"

1980: Creative Arts Award, L.A. YWCA

Nominated:

1994: Nebula Award for Best Novel – Parable of the Sower

1987: Nebula Award for Best Novelette – "The Evening and the Morning and the Night"

1967: Fifth Place, Writer's Digest Short Story Contest

Critical reception

Most critics praise Butler on her unflinching exposition of human flaws, which she depicts with striking realism. The New York Times regarded her novels as "evocative" if "often troubling" explorations of "far-reaching issues of race, sex, power". The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction called her examination of humanity "clear-headed and brutally unsentimental" and Village Voice's Dorothy Allison described her as "writing the most detailed social criticism" where "the hard edge of cruelty, violence, and domination is described in stark detail." Locus regarded her as "one of those authors who pay serious attention to the way human beings actually work together and against each other, and she does so with extraordinary plausibility." Houston Post ranked her "among the best SF writers, blessed with a mind capable of conceiving complicated futuristic situations that shed considerable light on our current affairs."

Scholars, on the other hand, focus on Butler's choice to write from the point of view of marginal characters and communities and thus "expanded SF to reflect the experiences and expertise of the disenfranchised." While surveying Butler's novels, critic Burton Raffel noted how race and gender influence her writing: "I do not think any of these eight books could have been written by a man, as they most emphatically were not, nor, with the single exception of her first book, Pattern-Master (1976), are likely to have been written, as they most emphatically were, by anyone but an African American." Robert Crossley commended how Butler's "feminist aesthetic" works to expose sexual, racial, and cultural chauvinisms because it is "enriched by a historical consciousness that shapes the depiction of enslavement both in the real past and in imaginary pasts and futures."

Butler has been praised widely for her spare yet vivid style, with Washington Post Book World calling her craftsmanship "superb". Burton Raffel regards her prose as "carefully, expertly crafted" and "crystalline, at its best, sensuous, sensitive, exact not in the least directed at calling attention to itself."

Death

During her last years, Butler struggled with writer's block and depression, partly caused by the side effects of medication for her high blood pressure. She continued writing and taught at Clarion's Science Fiction Writers' Workshop regularly. In 2005, she was inducted into Chicago State University's International Black Writers Hall of Fame.

Butler died outside of her home in Lake Forest Park, Washington, on February 24, 2006, aged 58. Contemporary news accounts were inconsistent as to the cause of her death, with some reporting that she suffered a fatal stroke, while others indicated that she died of head injuries after falling and striking her head on her walkway. Another suggestion, backed by Locus magazine, is that a stroke caused the fall and hence the head injuries. After her death, the Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship was established by the Carl Brandon Society to provide support to students of color to attend the Clarion West Writers Workshop and Clarion Writers' Workshop, descendants of the original Clarion Science Fiction Writers' Workshop where Butler had gotten her start 35 years before.

Scholarship fund

The Octavia E. Butler Memorial Scholarship was established in Butler's memory in 2006 by the Carl Brandon Society. Its goal is to provide an annual scholarship to enable writers of color to attend the Clarion West Writers Workshop and Clarion Writers' Workshop, descendants of the original Clarion Science Fiction Writers' Workshop in Clarion, Pennsylvania, where Butler got her start. The first scholarships were awarded in 2007.

Selected works

Series

Patternist series

Patternmaster (Doubleday 1976; Avon 1979; Warner 1995)

Mind of My Mind (Doubleday 1977; Warner 1994)

Survivor (Doubleday 1978)

Wild Seed (Doubleday 1980; Warner 1988, 2001)

Clay's Ark (St. Martin's Press 1984; Ace Books 1985; Warner 1996)

Seed to Harvest (Grand Central Publishing 2007; omnibus excluding Survivor)

Xenogenesis series

Dawn (Warner 1987, 1989, 1997)

Adulthood Rites (Warner 1988, 1977)

Imago (Warner 1989, 1997)

Xenogenesis (Guild America Books 1989; omnibus)

Lilith's Brood (Warner 2000; omnibus)

Parable series (also referred to as the Earthseed series)

Parable of the Sower (Four Walls, Eight Windows 1993; Women's Press 1995; Warner 1995, 2000).

Parable of the Talents (Seven Stories Press 1998; Quality Paperback Book Club 1999; Women's Press 2000, 2001; Warner 2000, 2001)

Standalone novels

Kindred (Doubleday 1979; Beacon Press 1988, 2004).

Fledgling (Seven Stories Press 2005; Grand Central Publishing 2007).

Short story collections

Bloodchild and Other Stories (Four Walls, Eight Windows, 1995; Seven Stories Press, 1996, 2005; second edition includes "Amnesty" and "The Book of Martha").

Unexpected Stories (2014, includes "A Necessary Being" and "Childfinder")

Essays and speeches

"Birth of a Writer." Essence 20 (May 1989): 74+. Reprinted as "Positive Obsession" in Bloodchild and Other Stories.

"Free Libraries: Are They Becoming Extinct?" Omni 15.10 (Aug. 1993): 4.

"Devil Girl from Mars: Why I Write Science Fiction." Media in Transition. MIT 19 February 1998. Transcript 4 October 1998.

""Brave New Worlds: A Few Rules for Predicting the Future." Essence 31.1 (May 2000): 164+.

"A World without Racism." NPR Weekend Edition Saturday. 1 September 2001.

"Eye Witness: "Butler's Aha! Moment." O: The Oprah Magazine 3.5 (May 2002): 79–80.

Wikipedia

[mirandalinportfolio]

QUARTZ: My parents are Chinese. I was raised in Canada. Race was never an issue—until I moved to China

Korean?

No.

Japanese?

No.

… Hong Kong?

No. Canada.

And that’s usually where I lose people.

For the past year I have lived and studied in Beijing, China, and for the past year I have had this conversation, nearly verbatim, countless times. With taxi drivers. With bubble tea vendors. With my professors and tutors. With local friends. None of them seem able to fully wrap their heads around it.

My parents are both from Taiwan, I try to explain, but I was born and raised in Canada.

“Oh,” they pause, hinting momentarily at comprehension. “But you look so Chinese.”

I know I look Chinese. Before I came to China, I thought it was because I was Chinese. It had never occurred to me that holding a foreign passport disqualified me from that birthright. But for Chinese people—those whose government papers match their face—race, language, culture, and nationality are inextricably intertwined. The summertime row over the Diaoyu (NOT Senkaku) Islands and the ensuing outburst of ultra-nationalistic fervour was evidence of just how rigidly China still defines and defends its identity. Lacking the necessary “Chinese” mix made me as foreign, and possibly even more alien, than the blond-haired, blue-eyed creatures instantly recognized as “other.”

Admittedly, I had a fairly non-traditional Chinese upbringing. Unlike many of my second-generation peers, my childhood was not dominated by an overbearing Tiger Mother who browbeat me into excellence—she used the much tamer though still efficiently Chinese method of bribing good grades out of my sister and me. I was allowed to quit piano without becoming a prodigy; I became bilingual in English and French, not Chinese; and I grew up celebrating Chinese New Year with as much indifference as Christmas. I am also bad at math.

Far from becoming culturally confused or isolated though, I felt perfectly at ease with my hyphenated heritage. No one ever teased me about my accent or questioned my ethnic authenticity.

That is, not until I moved to China.

On paper, it seems like I should have the best of both worlds: the physical credentials to gain entry into the inner circle of Chinese locals as well as the visa status to enjoy the comforts of expatriate life, without the frustrating label of ‘laowai‘ (foreigner) hanging over me. However, the opposite has come true. Rather than finding community everywhere, I seem to fit nowhere.

In my time in Beijing, I have studied Mandarin intensively and tried to immerse myself in the culture; I even find myself growing alarmingly comfortable with the constant pushing, yelling, spitting, squatting, hustling, and bustling of daily Chinese life. But as much as I try to become like my Chinese kin, living here has made me realize just how stark the differences are between the ancestral family I want to bond with and the actual homeland I belong to.

It’s not just that I don’t share any common cultural reference points with local Chinese, but also that our life experiences and how we experienced them are literally worlds apart.

Although I have had many interesting conversations with Chinese people, it has never felt like more than just words being spoken toward each other. Even on the most global topics like love and money, there is very little in their stories or mine that the other side can grasp hold of. It is only with fellow foreigners that I can relate and empathize about childhood memories, family relationships, and future aspirations.

While language and culture put me in the minority, it is not a visible minority. Ironically, just as my Chinese looks cause much consternation among locals, it causes indifference among the countrymen I psychically reach for. I disappear in the crowd: just another Chinese face in the sea of presumed strangers. The camaraderie shared among foreigners—the exchanges of knowing glances or sympathetic smiles that say, “I feel the same way; I’m there with you”—eludes me. Instead, with over-enunciated enthusiasm, I have repeatedly been told, “Your English is so good.”

Of course, my experience is not unique. Rough estimates put the number of overseas Chinese at close to 47 million worldwide, and I am clearly not the only one who has decided to venture back. My experience is also not universal. Among us descendants of Chinese immigrants, there is a wide spectrum of acculturation. Some are raised as if they never left China, only in a different country. Others come to China and discover they are more at home here than where they were born.

I likely sit on the far edge of assimilation. In China, I have found adventure and opportunity, but so far no sense of place. I wonder if that could change. If I live here long enough, study the language hard enough, want it bad enough, will I finally feel Chinese enough? Will the questions about my looks and language go away? Will I ever just be Chinese?

https://qz.com/45335/my-ancestors-are-chinese-i-was-raised-in-canada-race-was-never-an-issue-until-i-moved-to-china/

[stonestridernerd]

E, L, N, O, P, T?

Is the most emotive.

That would probably be Kij’aza. She still talks a lot, but she has a broader range and usage of body language than my other characters. While she tries using them to show herself as an expect huntress with a great connection with the beasties, it also betrays her feelings more often than she’d like to admit. 

Lies the most.

Gizzie Fizzlespark often has to cover her tracks. Whether it’s conveniently leaving out an invention’s flaws out during negotiations or acting like she’s actually slept the night prior, she’s constantly lying to get through life. 

Needs way more attention from me.

That’s a tie between all my blood elf OCs and Agnes. I have so many story ideas I want to write with Anaetha and Inethial, especially the former’s death and the hunt for the demon hunter. I even have full on outlines for these stories (which I never freaking do!), but the motivation to actually write them out has been low. In addition, Aelisron as a whole needs more love and development. 

However, that title would probably go to Agnes Ackler. The undead is among my oldest character concepts, but I have yet to do anything substainal with her. She hasn’t interacted with any of my other characters yet or have much of a story. Most of this is due to the fact that I still don’t know what I want to do with her. Her aspirations and desires still elude me, which usually means I need to shelve her for a while, but I love her backstory too much. -_- 

Has the most OCs of their own. 

None of my characters write their own characters in stories as much, but Winoa would definitely take the cake here. She enjoys detailing the tales of various adventures throughout her stories. While most of them are either people she knows or figures from legends she’s grown up with, there are a few she’s created herself. 

Among her favorites is a Shu’halo spirit walker named Tadossi Hazewood. Tadossi travels across Azeroth in search of the spirits’ tales, visiting scared and sacred sites alike to listen and document them. What he hears ranging from the serious and probable to the strange attempts at humour from long gone ancestors

Is the purest, most perfect cinnamon roll.

That’d be Suyan. The jewelcrafter is a polite sweetheart, simple trying to carry on the family business. Between Azeroth’s continuous threats and his family’s...traditions and dynamics, Suyan tries to make the best of a complicated and occasionally lethal world. 

Is the most terrifying.

While, Kij would like to think that’s her and others may think that’s Aelisron, that title goes to angry taurenesses. Although it takes a decent push to get them to that point, especially for Kennocha, both are forces to reckon when threatened. The few times the druidess has lost it, those unfortunate to be on the other side of her hooves felt a terrible fury. 

Thank you @squadron-of-damned!

[swfanficbyjz]

SW AU - Fate of the Master: Chapter 1

          The explosion rocked the temple as they each dove in opposite directions to avoid getting hit by the heavy stones now raining down on them. Even with the insulating protection of his helmet, the sound was deafening. For long moments following the initial collapse he couldn’t hear anything. The dusty smoke and ash swirled around him as he ran awkwardly to the edge of the room seeking cover. He couldn’t make her out in the chaos, but he could sense she was still alive.

          He coughed as dirt and debris was sucked into the hole she’d cut in his mask and was now interfering with his respiratory system. He needed to get back to his ship and into his hermetically sealed chamber so he could repair his suit. For years, he’d felt it was indestructible; that nobody that dared fight him would ever get close enough to do any real damage to it. The only person alive that once matched his power was nowhere to be found. He’d let his guard down, it wouldn’t happen again. Somewhere in her quick movements, she’d sidestepped his impregnable defenses as if he’d been merely swinging a practice saber.

         The heads-up display in the remaining eye socket homed in on movement. He blinked to zoom in and could just make out the top of her montrals as she slunk slowly, low to the ground behind a large stone. Glancing around to make sure there was no other immediate danger, he stood up as quickly as he could and clenched his robotic hand into a fist. She gasped in surprise and her eyes widened as he sidestepped the rock and came into her field of vision.

         He held her up in the air with the force like she weighed nothing. The invisible choking hold slowly stealing the life from her. It was time to finish this, he could not have any reminders of who he used to be. The path forward was nothing but blood and destruction and he was glad of it. He was glad to not have to think, to feel, to fear… Skywalker had been weak, but Vader was strong. Vader was ruthless and cunning, merciless and… powerful. He smirked into the mouthpiece of his helmet, putting more pressure into his grip of the force. He watched her squirm and struggle under his power. He could feel her fear… he could feel her life force fading. She twitched and shuddered, gulping for air. It would all be over soon. But as he watched her trying to claw free from invisible hands through one red lens and one with no filter, memories of Padmé flooded his brain with more intensity than a thermal detonator; seeing her struggling for air, her pregnant belly causing her to sway awkwardly as she groped at nothing. Rage overwhelmed him; anger, hatred… and then something else… remorse?

            He dropped his clenched hand just as Ahsoka’s body stilled; gulping down his pain, trying to restore Vader to the foreground. What had just happened? How had Anakin risen inside him? His weakness and compassion should have been crushed ages ago! From his knees where he’d fallen he looked up at Ahsoka’s splayed body, unmoving where he had dropped her. He felt a burning pain, sadness, in his chest. Why could he still feel the unworthy worm inside him? How had he risen through so many layers of conditioned defenses?

            He stumbled clumsily towards her; crawling through the mess on all fours like an animal. He reached out one gloved, mechanical hand to touch her lekku before he could stop himself, surprising himself with the tenderness. Though he could not physically feel her pulse, he could feel her life force steadily regaining strength. She was still alive! He hadn’t succeeded!

            He rocked back to a kneeling position and grabbed her hands trying to pull her to a sitting position. He cursed his mechanical limbs and how hard they made his movement. He almost dropped her trying to turn her so she was sitting with her back against one knee. He held her stiffly, unable to subtly shift her to a more comfortable position like a normal human would have been able to. He held her with his left hand around her shoulders and his right gently caressing her face.

            “I’m so sorry, Ahsoka.” He breathed with difficulty. “I’m so sorry.” He repeated as he rocked her still body. Somewhere in the back of his brain he knew the emperor would punish him for this show of weakness, but for the moment, he didn’t care. The emperor, the empire, the Sith, the whole galaxy, for that matter, felt light years away. For a precious few moments, he could forget them; forget everything, except the Togruta in his arms. 

            She’d grown so much since he’d last seen her. Even unconscious, a power surrounded her he’d never witnessed before. She’d always been powerful, that was never a question; reckless, impulsive, fearless… and ready to follow him into anything the war dished out. That was his Snips. But now the power lived under the surface; flowing from her in the form of quiet confidence and acceptance. Whatever had happened to her in the last sixteen years had forced her to mature, to adapt and to survive. He found himself suddenly wishing he’d been there to see it; he knew he’d have stood by full of pride, ready to leap to her defense at any moment. This was all his fault.

           She stirred in his arms, sleepily trying to reach her face and rub her eyes. “Anakin?” She murmured, blinking sluggishly a few times. 

            “I’m here,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting the sudden wave of emotions. 

            “Anakin,” she said again. “Oh… my Anakin…” her voice was dreamlike as she fought for consciousness again. Her Anakin? His heart leapt in his chest, jubilant and full of feelings he’d long since locked down. How could she care about him so much? He tried desperately to clamp his pattering heart. When she was fully awake again, she would not be so forgiving; she would remember what he’d tried to do. He took her arms and lifted her so she was perched on his knee. Her head lolled slightly as she tried to wake up. “Anakin? Is that really you?” She said, some vigor returning to her voice.

            “Yes.” He croaked as her hand reached up to touch his helmet. He held his breath as her other one reached up to take hold of it in both hands. 

            “Why are you hiding from me?” Her words slurred slightly as if she’d been drinking Corellian whiskey. He could feel his cheeks becoming damp, but he dared not move. He just held her unable to pull away. He knew she would try to remove his helmet the rest of the way. Could his heart take it? She fumbled for a few moments with the magnetic clasps, but despite her sullied state, it came loose with a release of air. His heart was racing now. He wanted to stop her, but he could not. For some reason… he had to know if she could still love the scarred and broken face that lived in that helmet; the one that struggled to breathe, the shadow of what he’d once been.

            She pulled off the top of his helmet with one hand, the other on his shoulder to keep herself steady… and she looked at him. She was the first living being outside his attendants to see his face since he’d first been put in that suit. He was ashamed, he wanted to look away, to spare himself the inevitable look of horror in her eyes, but when she dropped the helmet he looked up before he could stop himself, surprised to find instead of horror or even pity, love. Her hands traced the sides of his bumpy face. She caressed it with such tenderness, he could only weep. Then to his surprise, she stood up and leaned forward and kissed him gently on the top of his head. 

          “My love,” she said, in Togrutan. Had he known she spoke the language of her ancestors? He’d never heard her do it before… not that he could recall anyways. Maybe she was afraid of what she was feeling? Maybe she’d hoped he didn’t understand her?

          He stood up, lifting her with him, her arms fell comfortably around his neck piece as he embraced her around the waist and pulled her close, slightly to the side so none of his chest buttons were pushed. She gazed adoringly at his misshapen face as if she could still see the handsome one it had once been. “I’ve always loved you.” She said steadily. How had he not known? His mind wandered to Padmé and he realized… because he’d only had eyes for her, he could never see anyone else. Yet, no matter how hard he’d held onto his wife, this annoying little Togruta girl had wormed her way into his heart too. He’d always known he was attached to her, of course, he’d just never realized how much. He’d been so blind; he’d distracted himself so completely, especially after she left, that the possibility that she could love him had eluded him. If he had Padmé, a romantic relationship with anyone else was out of the question.

            His arms dropped to his side and she slid back to the ground, but she refused to let him go and snaked her arms around his back leaning into his chest. He was tired. He no longer lacked the strength to deal with the rollercoaster of emotions as they bombarded him one right after another like the unrelenting blaster bolts of the old battle droids. He dropped again to his knees as if his robotic limbs were failing him. Stronger than ever she caught his weight as she too lowered herself down. He leaned into her like she was his only strength. And she held fast to him as if she understood how hard this was for him. Her face was up in the crook of his neck cuddled as close as she could get with his bulky armor.

           “Ahsoka,” he breathed raggedly, grasping for her body as if she needed to be closer still. He looked at her at last as she pulled away enough to gaze up at him. He leaned in for the kiss, acutely aware that the respirator that jutted forward could easily stab her in the neck. Somehow, she managed to navigate the minefield of heavy machinery around his lips and they collided at last. She pulled him closer as she weaved her arms around his neck. It had been forever ago in memories since he’d tasted something so sweet. His lips were glued to her like she was his life support now. He wanted to hold her forever; to taste everything she was and everything she would be. But as their kiss went on, he started gasping for air.

            They broke apart; he coughed and wheezed, pushing his mouth downward to force the bottom half of his helmet to give him air. She leaned the side of her head onto his shoulder, her elbow resting in his hand. Waiting patiently for his breathing to return to normal. She rubbed the pleather material covering his arm and began to slide her hand back up to his face, he caught her wrist. His senses returning as if somehow part of the air his suit provided. 

            “Ahsoka, stop.” He said harshly. “We can’t do this. It’s wrong.” She pulled away, hurt written across her face.

            “Love is never wrong.” She replied indignantly.

            “Jedi aren’t allowed to love.” He said angrily. “Love is pain, pain leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.” He spoke quickly so she couldn’t interrupt him. 

            She stood too and stepped towards him, repeating her earlier sentiment with less venom, “I’m no Jedi.” She tried to reach up to touch his face again, but he stepped away.

            “Don’t do this.” He said stiffly. He picked up his helmet from where she’d discarded it before. “I’m not who you want me to be. Anakin is dead. He must remain that way. He is not who I am anymore.” She shivered visibly as if his words lowered the temperature in the room. He put his helmet back on his head, latching it securely once again and breathing deep. She reached for it, shaking her head.

            “No…” she whispered, “Anakin… don’t leave me. Don’t do this! Not again.” He caught both her wrists and she struggled to get free as if her very life depended on removing his helmet. It very well might, he breathed in the oxygen from his suit again. His hands tightened on her wrists as Vader returned to the forefront. He felt nothing as she struggled in his arms. He looked at her defiantly.

            “The emperor will not be pleased that I showed you mercy,” the cool, emptiness in his voice returning as he continued as if simply stating facts, “go now, and do not come back.” He threw her arms down and turned on his heels, cape billowing behind him.

            His stride was long, but she caught up to him anyways, reaching out and catching his arm, “no.” She said simply. He stopped and she slid her arm through his. “I’m going with you. Wherever you go.” He looked down at her assessing and then he pulled away from her and continued walking. 

            She ran until she was in front of him and he stopped again, looking her up and down. “Don’t make me kill you,” he growled, pulling his lightsaber from his belt. But even though he could skewer her before she had time to react, she stepped boldly within range and grabbed his arm again.

            “I’m coming with you.” It wasn’t a request. “You’ll just have to tell the emperor you found a recruit.” He looked down at her again, so young still, so naïve… so trusting. As if she could not possibly fathom the wretchedness that awaited her; the torture she would have to endure before the emperor would be convinced of her loyalty to him, if he ever would. 

            “You don’t want to do this.” He breathed. “Trust me.”

            “As a matter of fact, I do.” She snipped. “I’m not a Jedi, but I know where to find some. For a place at your side, I’ll give you anything you want. Now let’s go find this emperor of yours.” She raised the arm that wasn’t wrapped around his in an ‘onward’ gesture. He started limping along with her by his side wondering why he was letting her come along. His mind buzzed with how to protect her from herself, let alone the emperor. He’d tried to warn her, but she refused to listen. Would she really join the dark side so easily? Did he want her too? Even as Vader, he liked having her on his arm; there was something oddly soothing about her presence. As if she could tame the monsters inside of him and bring the screaming dragon to its knees. She’d already done it twice as if he’d never built defenses rather than take sixteen years to carefully construct them. But no, she’d smashed through them in seconds, like the separatist battle tanks.

            He stole a sideways glance at her. She wasn’t a child anymore. Her lekku came down to her waist, her montrals higher, but she was still tiny compared to him. He’d always been tall, but now the mechanical appendages exaggerated his height, the bulky suit with all its life sustaining apparatus made him bulkier. He was fearsome to behold. Most that faced him, even the officers that he directed, would cower before him. And yet here stood a small Togruta woman full of fire, passion, a quick tongue and a gigantic heart, that could not be made to fear him. If there was one thing in the galaxy he could be thankful for, despite everything that had happened, it was that he’d never let Obi wan tame her. In her, he’d seen a flame so intense it could light the world on fire. But in her eagerness to please, to be accepted, all those years ago, Obi wan would have snuffed it out; quoting rules and procedure until she’d become as interesting as a rock.

            The Jedi had only really cared about one thing; obeying without question. In many ways, they were worse slavers than the Hutts; taking children from their parents and turning them into submissive zombies devoid of feelings, sense, and personality. Raising them to be machines of war, fighters without par, save for the Sith. And then dismissing them if they dared disagree with their methods. He saw the Jedi for what they truly were; cold, unfeeling overseers, bent only on saving face in the eyes of the republic. 

            He squashed the rise of anger. It was pointless to let it bother him now. The Jedi were nearly extinct. The republic a waste. In its place, the Empire; that Emperor Sidious had carefully constructed from the ruins of a failed democracy. He’d chipped away what brought it down and sculpted a government of action. No more endless senate debates. A dictated instruction, followed by seamless execution. The people of the galaxy were lucky to have such a wise leader. If only they were more appreciative of the peace it brought.

Next Chapter ->

[davidaolson]

This fifth sun, the sun of movement, illuminated the Toltecs and illuminates the Aztecs. It has claws and feeds on human hearts. ~Aztec Theology

Dead Hearts Walking

We are a steady stream pushing ourselves up the steep stairs one by one. They walk without difficulty. I am winded by the exertion, gasp for oxygen in the thin air. With step 248, we reach the summit of the Temple of the Sun, the largest pyramid in the Americas. Each of my companions, a devotee has a cleanly sliced, horizontal hole in their chests just left of center, slicing through the nipple region. The ghosts walking the street do not have the hole. Only those ascending the pyramid do. There must have been a ghost priest near the base performing the ritual.

In their right hands, each holds a beating heart, their own beating heart dripping phantom blood. The drops are low luminance red. They contain too much pigment to be transparent, not enough to be opaque. Translucent blood, translucent as the mixed-blood people inhabiting a society happy to push them to the margins. Out of sight. Out of mind. Translucent. Preferred invisible.

They search for the Sun Stone to offer their hearts, a sacrifice to propitiate the starving Aztec Gods, drinkers of human blood. Once the gods’ thirst is satiated, they will reward the people and resurrect the lost empire and the Aztec will reign again.

But the sacred Stone is missing. It was stolen by Spanish invaders for its gold inlay then thrown in a worthless heap until it was rediscovered and placed behind bars in a museum. Why behind bars? The scientists have heard the stories. They know power lives within and blood will set it free. They fear the power, fear losing their own exalted place in society. So, the people are kept at bay lest they sprinkle their own claret juice and resurrect the ancient gods.

The original thieves failed to comprehend the sacred stone’s significance. Without it, connection to the Gods is severed. The passage from life to resurrection and final death blocked. The sacrifice cannot be made, neither resurrection for the empire nor final passage for the people is attainable. As this realization sets in, that they are trapped in the between world, my companions let loose a howl accompanied by a torrent of tears.

They cram still gasping hearts back into emaciated chests. Heads droop low, unshoed feet drag on sharp rocks. They descend the steps leaving a trail of ghost blood. Some stumble. Others, distraught, hoping for final death and freedom from the curse, jump from the top of the 216 foot Sun Pyramid bouncing off the sides, rolling over the angled walls, come to rest at the pyramid base mangled, crushed. Death eludes them, still. They remain bound to the misery infecting the empire when their leaders turned their backs on Lord Sun instead prostrating before the furry-faced man on the great white horse they believed to be a God incarnate. But Cortés was merely a killer, an invading demon.

With bodies broken, spirits crushed, they rejoin their brothers and sisters walking Avenida del Muerto, the Way of the Dead, the main road connecting the pyramids in Teotihuacán. The wanderers slowly fall into a procession, a line of spirits walking, single file along the Avenue of the dead from the Sun to the Moon to the distant Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent and back to the Sun Temple where they again pull their hearts from their chests and trudge up the 248 steps hoping, in vain, to end their purgatory. The Church came to bring heaven to the Americas but condemned the natives to perpetual perdition.

Sun Temple

Sun Temple

Sun Temple

Moon Temple

Avenue of the Dead

The line of spirits is endless with multitudes streaming toward the ancient city. They cover the land, a thick blanket of locusts, on their way to join the procession. Even the dead harbor misplaced hope in Gods.

My wife, and I suspect the other tourists, cannot see the ghosts, are not aware of the shadow people wandering in the crowds who slide through the living as light pierces a pane of crystal glass.

Are the locals aware? Probably. The ancient blood runs through their veins so I believe they have genetic knowledge. I hear the vendors speaking to each other but not in Spanish. My guess, it is Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. If their knowledge of the language lives, I’m sure they know of these shadow people, can see the shadow people. I would like to ask them but believe, even if we could speak a common language, they would not reveal ancient secrets to an outsiderf, especially a gringo.

When I visited almost two years ago, I did not see the shadow people. But that was before I met Grandfather, a spirit, a ghost. An ancient who is as old as the Americas themselves, possibly older. I encountered him twice within a year, both times in New Mexico at distinct locations connected by a common theme. Petroglyphs made by some of the earliest aboriginals in what is now known as the Americas.

The first time I also met and had a conversation with a Rattlesnake spirit. Between those encounters, I met and received a message from the Tukó spirit in the Philippines. Three extra-worldly experiences in one year are enough to put anyone off their nut. All things considered, I am not surprised to be walking with shadow beings at Teotihuacán, archaeological ruins of what was a major city in the Aztecan empire. Nor do I harbor any fear.

Grandfather passed a vision into my head through touch when we met in Albuquerque foretelling of an upcoming encounter. I am in Old México for a break from the cold Chicago winter and, if Grandfather was real, as I believe him to be, to meet my next teacher, Puma. In the vision, though, Los Muertos talked to me. I have tried conversing with these shadows but they act like I don’t exist. Are they aware of me?

Ah well, I know where Puma lives in these ruins. I saw the mural on my previous visit and that is where we are headed next. My only problem, how do I get rid of my wife and away from the crowds. In all my previous spirit encounters, I was alone. It seems to be a prerequisite. No witnesses. No one to validate my experiences. No one to assure me I don’t wander in and out of schizophrenia.

Miztli (Puma)

Miztli (Puma) Miural

We stop to admire the Puma mural which is a short bit along the avenue on the way to the Temple of the Moon. It is tawny with absurdly long claws. Red waves in the background make it look like it’s walking on water.

I need to be rid of the wife. Time for my sob story.

“The mother-freaker Sun Temple was tall. The rise between those steps is long. I thought the Aztec were littler people like five and a half feet tall. How did they manage those steps? And the steepness is scary. I was worried I would take a tumble on the way down. I bet a few of ’em were accidentally sacrificed to the gods just from falling while trying to get to the top. You are smaller than them. You must be tired from the climb up and down.”

“Nope. I’m ok. I’m feeling good. The altitude isn’t bothering me at all.”

“Really? You are definitely better fit than me.” Shameless schmoozing. “I guess the personal trainer is paying off. I should probably find one too because I’m feeling a bit winded and my cough is tickling at the back of my throat up…”

“…and you want to rest for a bit so I should just go ahead?”

“Ummm…”

“Can’t you come up with a different lie? You told me almost the exact same story a few weeks ago in New Mexico. Practically a duplicate word for word except for the added trainer part. Trying to play to my ego, are you?”

Sheepishly “Ok. I’m feeling a strong need to be solo for a short time. It is the only way I can connect with the spiri…er…the landscape. I don’t want you to feel I am abandoning you.”

“Listen. I’m an introvert. I understand the soul’s drive for alone time to rejuvenate. And, please, no more of this spirit seeing vision shit. If you are going to create a magical realism story cool. I like reading your stuff. Just quit pretending it’s real.”

“Sorry…” not sorry. Did my hypocrisy show through in my intonation? Probably for her next words were, “I’m going to the moon temple. Meet me there when you are ready.” And she walked away without waiting for my response angry footsteps pounding the trodden grass.

It is going to take some mighty fast talking to smooth this over but that’s a problem for later. In the meantime, I need to learn from Puma. I would kneel but the ground is pebbly and my knees are wretched. Prostrating is out with so many people milling about. So I whisper using the few Nahuatl words I learned specifically for this occasion. I hope Puma can hear my prayer over the din.

Miztli (Puma), achtontli (ancestor) icniuhtli (friend). I call you friend knowing very well we may be distant brothers of a common ancestor in a blessed cihtli (grandmother). I saw you in a vision gifted to be my…by our…our Grandfather. I am here because Grandfather foretold you would reveal a cochitlehua, a seeing dream showing my next destiny.

No acknowledgment.

Do not fear me, I am not tlacatecolotl, an afternoon owl bringing evil to either you or the ghosts wandering this ancient city. I seek your toltecal, your wisdom that I may understand the huitzitzilin, the hummingbird journey leading me from flower to flower.

Miztli still appears not to hear me. It remains stoically perched on the wall not flexing any of it’s taught, tawny amber muscles. Nor do I sense it recognizes my presence. If it had, a bridge should form connecting our spirits, enabling communication.

I turn around to think and discover I am surrounded by a semicircle of ghost people with me at the locus. They stand, quiet, focused in my direction. I cannot tell if they are actually looking at me because their eyes are vacant, gray orbs. I slide a few steps to my left, they shift left. I return the three steps to the right, they follow again.

On the pyramid climb, they were oblivious to my presence. If not oblivious then consciously chose to ignore me. Now, they are definitely focused on me. Was hearing their own language the impetus for the change?

“Miztli,” I say testing my hypothesis. They lean closer, the ancient language a magnet pulling them toward me. The words must have pierced the wall between the living and the wandering dead diverting them from their mourner’s path toward me.

“¿Tlen?” I say which translates as what. I need to know what they want from me. Perhaps, they have insight and can help bridge me into Puma’s world.

In unison, they respond, “Meztli.”

Using my thumb, I point over my shoulder toward the Puma mural hoping it is not a rude gesture in their Aztec culture. I ask, “¿Miztli?”. I’m too fearful to point with pursed lips which would require turning my back on the phantoms, the growing legion of phantoms. I sense an uneasiness in the crowd. Again they say in booming unison, “Meztli.” This time looking left and pointing with pursed lips to the North.

It is then I realize my mistake. I thought they had said miztli which means puma but they actually said meztli meaning moon. They are directing me to the Moon Pyramid.

“¿Does Miztli spirit reside at the temple of Meztli?” I don’t expect an answer. A response presupposes people who died hundreds of year ago can understand my English. I pause for a brief eternity allowing ample space for them to speak. No response.

I turn right, begin walking toward the Moon Temple hoping it is where I will find miztli but expecting bubkus, nada, nothing. The phantoms follow close behind. I glance back for one last look at the mural. Puma has vanished from the painting. There is a hole where the wavy red lines were behind the painting. Shit. I missed my chance.

I turn back to the ghosts who have resumed their eternal march. I jump in front of them and wave my arms. The walk around me, through me on their never-ending procession that will eventually route them to the top of the Sun Temple and another attempt to resurrect the old gods, their dispossessed lives. Instead, they exist in an eternal hell. Their purpose had been to distract me so Puma could make an escape. I am disturbed. Why did Miztli choose to avoid me?

Head hanging, I drag my feet to the Moon skirting the ubiquitous vendors selling trinket and blankets and jaguar whistles and graven images. Can they see the ghosts? Do they care?

The steps up the Moon Temple are equally steep as the Sun. These, though, end at a platform less than halfway up the pyramid. Access to the top is prohibited, blocked by a weak fence I could easily circumvent. But the ascent is tricky, the steps crumbled, crumbling. An ascent carries the twin possibilities of success and sacrifice in equal measures. My goat days are long behind me. I opt to play it safe.

I return to the lip of the platform, sit, stare south along the very straight Avenue of the Dead toward the unseeable Temple of the Feathered Serpent. The Aztec were astounding engineers. The most distant temple It is hidden behind polluted air. Beyond that is a mountain range. Further still all of Central and South America with many more ruins to explore before I jump from the physical world to the spirit world. Hopefully, not too soon though.

The tourist count, high when we arrived, is continually increasing. As expected when visiting famous sites during vacation time between Christmas and New Years. Too many people for my liking. The avenue is packed with the colorful living and gray, translucent dead. Is there really a difference between life and death? So often, life feels like hell.

In the midst of the chaos, I spy the tawny rippling muscles and twitching tail of Miztli. Is Puma out for a stroll or a hunt? It looks toward me, at me. Not having the animals sharp vision, I cannot tell if it is looking with disinterestedness or disdain. My soul tells me it’s probably indifference. I’m living. It is spirit. What can I possibly offer a demigod?

My wife sits next to me, “I see you made it.” The angry edge is mostly gone from her voice.

“Yup.”

“You look hot. Your face is pink. Here, drink some water so you stay hydrated. We better get you a hat on the way out.”

I drink, wishing it was colder, wishing it was an elixir that would allow me to exist permanently and simultaneously in both worlds instead of spirit visions occurring haphazardly. Is it haphazard? Grandfather must have some plan, some rationale for bringing me to his side. I wish I knew what it was.

I feel a need to speak, to bridge the gap I created. “This is a great view, I would love to have seen it in its heyday when the pyramids were pristine and all these structures in mint condition. I’m sure it was amazing.”

“Did you find what you were looking for at the Puma grotto?”

“Do you want the truth?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Even if it includes spirits and phantoms?”

“I want truth not figments of your imagination. Save that for your stories.”

“Ok. No. I did not find what I wanted at the grotto. I learned nothing. Maybe, I was supposed to learn nothing.”

“That’s good. Are you about ready to go?”

“Sure. I am feeling a bit lightheaded. The sun is getting to me. It is exasperated by the low humidity. I can hear the moisture being sucked from my body through my pores. I need to get a Coke on the way out. The sugar will do me some good.”

“Are you ready to go now or do you need more rest?”

“I’m ready. Say goodbye Gracie.”

“Gracie?”

“Tag line from an old TV show. Let’s find our driver and get back to Mexico City.”

Cholula

A few days later, we shift ourselves from México City to Puebla via an easy two-hour, first class bus ride. The one drawback, the movie on the overhead screens is in Spanish. My Spanish, other than impolite words, is elementary and that is being generous. I’m unable to understand most of the movie. This lack of Spanish speaking is a deficiency I need to rectify since there are still many Central and South American countries I plan on visiting.

México felt modern. Not as modern as Chicago but still contemporary. Puebla is more old school with great colors on the buildings. The Zocalo is a cozy park surrounded by shops, restaurants, with the focal point a gorgeous cathedral. It feels like an old European town. I could see myself retiring here spending the mornings sipping tea and writing. The evenings would be more difficult because the restaurants lack variety.

For this second half of our trip, we have prearranged a local to guide us, a friend of a Chicago friend. They are a mother and daughter pair. The mother speaks more English than we do Spanish still our ability to communicate with her is limited. The daughter, a teenager, is a self-taught English speaker. She has a strong grasp of the language and is virtually accent-free. This is the first time she’s conversed in English. My wife and I are stunned.

Our first stop, the great pyramid of Cholula, is a touch shorter than the Sun Temple making it the 2nd tallest in the Americas. Most of Cholula is unexcavated. By volume, Cholula is larger than any of the taller Egyptian pyramids. Which begs the question. Which is bigger? Is it the greater height or the greater volume?

When I used to fish, some of my fishing buddies determined bigger by length. I was a weight guy believing a heavier fish would feed more people therefor it was the bigger. We never did reach an agreement. Maybe, if I caught the longer fish I would have shifted to their perspective. I never did catch the largest fish so it was a moot point. The one time I was close, the fish, a four-footer, spit the lure out right at the boat and winked at me as it dove into the darkness.

The side of the pyramid on which we arrive appears to be nothing more than a hill. We can’t see it yet but there is a tiny little church on top desecrating the sacred pyramid. That is bad but the story gets worse. We walk around to the opposite side. Vendors are hawking dried grasshoppers, a local delicacy sold by the bucket full. I am unable to suppress my squeamishness long enough for a sample. Next time, I tell myself knowing very well there is unlikely to be a next time. There are few foods I won’t knowingly try. Insects and balut top that list. My try new food tactic is to have the people I’m with order their favorites for my meal and not tell me what I ate until after I’ve finished. It’s a great way to stretch my palette.

The Aztec were master Engineers creating their cities without the aid of computers or machinery. I expect the pyramid to have sides parallel with the cardinal directions like the sun and moon temples. This is not the case. It isn’t until reaching the top I come up with a logical, to me, rationale. The pyramid is built askance for spiritual purposes. Parallel to one side there is a volcano and another mountain peak. In concert, they are key figures in a local creation story.

The Yellow Church

The ascent is a paved walkway, an ascending road absent steps. I don’t know if it is the original fixed up or a modern addition. The angle of ascent is not insignificant, the pain in my thighs a minor irritation, the 7,000-foot altitude plays a part. We stop twice to catch our breath. I am reminded of the uphill ascent to Parvati temple in Pune India. Both feel similar in distance and inclination.

Stairway to Yellow Church

Yellow Church

At the top sits a small church. I am appalled but not surprised. It was the Spanish invaders’ practice to deprive the indigenous their freedoms and their lives. They also did their best to annihilate their chosen afterlife. This is the underlying reason for the ghosts wandering the Avenue of the Dead at Teotihuacan.

The Aztec were born into a belief system, a system annihilated by the invaders preventing the Aztec from completing their prescribed birth, death, afterlife cycle. They lived and died but were unable to transition from death to final afterlife thus are stuck in a limbo world and will remain trapped until their rituals can be performed. The Spanish tried to supplant the Aztec system with Christianity but the new system is a cycle outside the original. Unless an individual Aztec freely chose to convert, they remained bound under the auspices of the original system.

The Catholic Church, represented by the conquistadors, condemned millions to suffer eternally or until the Stone is returned to the sun temple and the legions adrift can finally crush their own hearts on that altar and be released into the eternal afterlife.

The yellow church perched on the top of the pyramid is named the Shrine of Our Lady of Remedies. It was built by indigenous slaves to transition them from paganism to Christianity. Repurposing religious sites was a common blasphemy conducted by the church patriarchy in their quest to save the savages. Yet another parallel between Catholicism and the ISIS bastards destroying ancient sites. The Catholic Church was the ISIS of the invaded new world.

Upon completion, including gilding the interior with stolen Aztec gold, the natives were forbidden from entering the church. They were allowed to attend mass from the outside looking in through the small church doors but not cross the threshold and sit beneath the roof. Even conversion, an act said to cleanse them in god’s eyes, was not a key allowing them entrance. The spiritual soul saved, physical soul pissed on. WHy? They were not white and not Spanish. Blatant discrimination reflects the Church’s true character. What they truly needed saving from was the invading Church and the depraved Christians.

The Underworld

On our way to the walk-up side of the Great Pyramid, we pass a ticket booth granting access to the soul of the pyramid. The line was long so we opted to bypass for the fee free jaunt to the top. One of our hosts, seeing the steepness of the climb, offered to return and buy tickets so we could enter on the flip trip. Having always wondered what lies beneath these behemoths, we agreed. An added bonus, there are excavated sections of the exterior complex only accessible with the tickets.

Stairway in Cholula Pyramid

The world beneath is spider-webbed with narrow passages. The openings take the form of a gravestone, straight sides with an angled top coming to a point at the peak. The best I can describe is the shadow cast by a short, squat pencil with the tip worn down.

The electric lighting is yellowish casting a jaundiced glow on the brick and mortar walls. Are they adobe? I’m not sure. The construction reminds me of adobe huts and the ruins left by the Anasazi. Rocks slathered with mud hardening sufficiently to endure the ages. I imagine the ancients scurrying the passageways carrying torches, atra, fire flickering on a long stick casting eerie shadows. I look for but do not see any signs of fire soot. Was it cleaned by the excavators? Rinsed away by floods?

My head barely clears the top. A head bobble would have me scraping the sides so I do my best to keep my noggin steady. No quick turns. The narrowness makes it not possible to walk two abreast. Squeezing past someone is impossible without body contact. The Aztec were littler people and would have little difficulty navigating the tunnels.

I feel walled in, claustrophobic. I imagine horrors, tunnels collapsing trapping us in blackness slowly suffocating in the dwindling oxygen. A rush of water slowly filling until we drown. I enjoy exploring the tunnels while simultaneously fighting the urge to flee into the sunlight and blessed open space. Every fiber of my being is at war with the dilemma made worse because I have no idea how long it will take to traverse the maze and emerge on the other side.

I have a strong preference for deserts over forests. Forests are beautiful and awe inspiring but sight lines are limited. In deserts, I can see forever in every direction. I feel free, not trapped by a thousand wooded fence poles. The solid walls in the pyramid depths are infinitely scarier than the densest, deepest forest.

We have no map. There are no mile markers displaying distance covered, distance remaining. I do my best to stuff my growing panic as I used to stuff my emotions. Hopefully, stuffing my panic with have a happier ending instead of exploding when my emotions erupted.

We pass side tunnels. Some on the same level, others descending all blocked by steel gates. Some are lit. Most are pitch. They are obviously still under excavation. One descending into the depths, step by step, has a shallow puddle pool a couple of feet down. Coins are visible in the still pool.

Are the coins an offering to the gods? A superstitious act to dispense good luck? Probably both. The folly of humanity never ceases to amaze me. It was at one such side tunnel that I pull over and let my companions pass. I am much bigger and was probably blocking their view. I also hope, having them in front of me, will add perspective reducing my burgeoning panic to a manageable whimper. And, it will provide moments to study architecture without worrying about holding the others up.

During an extended lollygag, I trace a faint outline, faint like it was scrubbed away by repeated flooding. I can’t really tell what was there because the many gaps force me to fill in the blanks with my imagination but there is a resemblance to the Puma at Teotihuacan. Can it be? Or is it wishful thinking? My own folly. I am still confused about why the encounter with Puma turned sour before a connection was bridged.

I’ve lost track of my companions. There is a turn ahead they must have already passed. I am alone. Alone in this constricted space with thinning air making it hard to breathe. My panic simmers with dainty, little, baby bubbles hiding the churning below. It’s not a raging boil, yet. I need to get out. I need to be free now. My feet move independently, rapidly.

I come to an ascending passageway on my right. There is no gate blocking the way. At the top, there is the glow of light. It’s around a bend so I can’t tell if the tunnel leads to the exterior but the natural looking light is a draw I can’t pass up.

The Up Tunnel

I’m in. No choice, really. The light is a salve to my fear, an elixir to quench my thirst for sun. I begin the upward climb gradually stooping over because the space between the steps and the ceiling is shrinking. Shortly, I am crawling on hands and knees and another phobia kicks in. I am terrified of getting wedged in a tight space in a cave. The next level phobia is getting wedged while scuba diving in caves with my oxygen running out.

I hear voices ahead. The light is bright. The end must be near. The final stretch, what appears to be the final stretch, of the tunnel requires belly crawling. I start and stop. Sweat coats my body, has soaked through my shirt. I can’t muster the courage to continue. I must abandon this route and return to the original. I start inching backward irritated I didn’t have enough courage to fight my irrational fears. My toes splash in a puddle. Oh shit! I’m kneeling in a thin layer of water, a layer slowly rising. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Progress or perish. Going back is not an option.

I reach my arms forward narrowing my body as much as possible wishing I had paid better attention to my weight. The bulging belly adds to the challenge. My fingers feel only slick wall, no finger holes to pull through. I can’t begin to guess how long the passage is. I use my toes to push myself forward, literally, inch by terrifying inch. Every fiber in my being screams in horror. I’m going to die.

The water continues rising forcing me to nose breathe. Mouth breaths would contain more water than air. The water makes the rock slick and toeholds difficult. I concentrate, force them down so the rubber on my shoes can push forward and create propulsion. The one benefit of the water is it acts as a lubricant making forward movement easier. I move a couple of feet when I feel a lip to grasp. The water reaches my nose just as I break through into a chamber.

To shaken to think, I find a rock and sit trying to settle my nerves. No luck. I must move. The chamber is a largish junction between two tunnels. I’m able to stand with a few inches of head clearance same as the original tunnel. My arms, outstretched, reach neither wall. I am disoriented. My internal compass cannot calibrate. Which tunnel do I take?

Holy shit, I realize I can see. There’s light from a burning torch propped in a wall notch. How did this get here? There are no footsteps on the soft ground. I pull it off the wall and step first into one tunnel then the other. I hear nothing but my breathing and a light trickle of water. Do I go with the flow or against the flow? I’ve always been an against the flow kind of guy. No need to deliberate. Water flows downhill. I want to ascend to the surface. I go against the flow.

I turn two bends and see a hole of light in the distance. I pick up my pace, drop the flaming torch, and am nearly running when I break out of the tunnel. I enter a light so forcefully bright, it knocks me flat on my back. I roll over to avoid the searing brightness. The ground is parched, cracked into a mosaic most chunks big as my hand. I pull myself up to my knees. Stunted corn with shriveled yellow-brown stalks extends for as far as I can see. Must be in the middle of a drought.

There is chanting behind me. I whirl around and discover I am kneeling before a stone structure of meticulously inlaid stonework, a man-made puzzle of stunning symmetry. The stones are much smaller than the rocks composing the pyramid but the workmanship is identical. It stands 2ish feet high. Three steps take one to the flat top. It appears to be a miniature of the great pyramid.

The chanting is from a lone priest standing on top. His eyes are dark as teak. They were all pupil and no iris or dilated to consume the pupil. Almost as if he is without a human soul.

He’s wearing a headdress of pheasant tail feathers. Some are natural, light brown bands separated by smaller, dark brown, almost black bands. Others are dyed red, green, and blue. They extend from is head outward similar to a peacock flashing feathers in a mating ritual. There’s an amulet around his neck. I can’t make it out clearly. He’s in an animal skin loincloth. It looks like the hide of a jaguar. The same hide is banded around his ankles to mid-calf. Leather sandals protect his feet.

Miztli with Blue Eyes

Behind him, a golden puma the gold of prairie grasses at sunrise is locked in a cage and pacing nonstop. The cage is built of wood, looks flimsy. Why doesn’t the puma push through the slats? It must have enough strength. It screams occasionally, a raspy scream sounding like the gates of hell have opened and a female demon is being skinned alive while simultaneously roasting on an open flame. Pumas eyes are pale blue, a warm blue with yellow trim and they are fixed on me, fixated on me. They never leave me even when screaming and exposing large canines.

In his right hand, the Priest holds a knife, a long knife of blackest obsidian glinting the sun hanging high in the cloudless, cerulean sky. He stands severe, eyes raised, arms outstretched to the heavens. Is the stone structure on which he stands an altar? If so, where’s the warrior for the sacrifice?

Footsteps approach from behind the patter of lots of footsteps. The priest lowers eyes and arms, looks into the distance over my shoulder. He is sweating yet the air is cool.

Is it the king’s army coming to sacrifice him for failing to summon rain from the gods? A priest unable to persuade the gods to give the gift of rain is not much use for an agrarian society. Perhaps he will be forced to cut his own heart from his chest? Will a priest finally get his comeuppance? It’s high time they paid for their sins.

I have an issue with priests and the organizations perpetuating the defective of the lot. By defectives, I mean those like the pedophile priests so long protected and hidden by the Catholic Church. As if wearing a white clerical collar automatically exempts them from paying for their horrendous crimes. They are men in places of authority and must be held to a higher standard than the laity because of their widespread influence. Instead, the Church chose, still chooses, to ignore the trauma of the children and move the bastard priests to places they could unleash more terror unchecked. Unconscionable. No…EVIL!

It’s not soldiers but common folk, men, women, and children in farmers clothing, little more than loincloths on all. Most are barefooted, a few wear sandals made of what appears to be corn husks. They gather on either side of me, behind me, drop to their knees in reverence when they stop. Some prostrate themselves. They chant, Tlaloc, in unison. Tlaloc, literally he who makes things sprout, is the Aztec rain god. They are petitioning Tlaloc for quiyahuitl, rain.

The priest has pulled on a mask with large round eyes and long fangs. He has become Tlaloc. My answer to who will be sacrificed is soon answered as a family, a husband, wife, and boy child about 5 years old walk to the altar. The family must watch the warrior be sacrificed up close? It seems unusually cruel not to mention traumatic to one so young.

Of course, I view this ancient ritual with modern eyes. My society is individualistic. We are an I society. The rights of the individual are paramount superseding the needs of the group. Others are collective. The needs of society trump the needs of the individual. Rules promote selflessness and sacrificing one to better the all. I have read, it was an honor to be the first warrior sacrificed to the gods by the priests. Who am I to judge how they choose to live.

The father grabs the boys hands, the mother his feet. They pick him up, pull on his limbs until he is parallel, lay him on his back holding tightly so movement from his struggles is minimized. I am horrified to see the priest kneel and raise the knife. The chanting grows louder. Tlaloc, TLALOC, TLALOC. The voices become a frenzy. TLAAAAALOOOOC!

I scream “Noooo” with all the volume I can muster. Either they cannot hear me or I am drowned out by the chanting. I look toward Puma. It is still fixed on me. Why can it see me but these people can’t? I try to stand and run to stop the madness but can’t move. My knees are rooted to the ground, tendrils extend from me into the cracks in the soil.

The priest drops the knife into the child’s chest. TLAAAAALOOOOC! He wiggles it around deftly, then reaches in and pulls out the heart.TLAAAAALOOOOC! He raises it toward the heavens and squeezes. Blood spurts from the severed arteries. TLAAAAALOOOOC! When the blood stops dripping, he takes a bite opening the chambers and turns it over ensuring the last drops of blood are bled. In my disgust, I cannot tell if the priest ate the part he bit off or spit it out. TLAAAAALOOOOC! The priest reaches behind, picks up an axe and lops off the child’s head in one blow. TLAAAAALOOOOC! The parents move the corpse to the side of the altar. They place the opening where the head hangs over the edge allowing the spilling blood to feed the earth. TLAAAAALOOOOC!

My stomach constricts. I feel the acid taste of vomit swelling in my throat. I heave but nothing comes out. I heave and heave. Nothing. I’m forced to swallow the vile liquid stuck in my throat.

Three additional sacrifices are offered in the same manner. One more boy and two petite girls. Are they small because the drought is long and food is scarce? All have been in the 5 to 10 year old range. The crowd has grown quiet. I wonder, is the carnage finished? I hope it is. I pray it is.

Everyone, the people, the priest looks my way. No. They are looking next to me at a family, couple and an infant, kneeling beside me. They stand up. Oh god, No! The infant is a ginger, a redhead with light, almost white skin. I am surprised. I didn’t know gingers existed in the Aztec universe. The mother places the child against her chest, the smiling cherub peers at me over the shoulder.

Holy Fuck! The infant is the spitting image of my childhood photos down to the cornflower, blue eyes. It looks exactly like me. Wait…No, no, NO! It doesn’t just look like me. It IS me. I am an Aztec infant about to be sacrificed. I don’t want to die. Hold on. Hold on! This can’t be me. I’m alive now. If I was killed, I couldn’t be alive. But Grandfather did say I had blood ties in the ancient New World. Could this be an ancestor? He also said I have many destinies. Could he be one of my manifestations? Is it a he or a she? too young to tell. Or did Grandfather say I have had many destinies? Or was the conversation about destinies past and future? I can’t recall.

The infant is outstretched on the altar. The parents are stoic. Are they drugged? Why aren’t they in agony? I would be fighting tooth and claw to prevent the pending insanity. Why aren’t they crying? How can they let this mad priest sacrifice their child to some mythological being and actually believe it will bring rain? This is fucked up. They are all brainwashed. I try to get up and stop the madness but the roots I have set won’t break free.

The instant the knife hits the child, I feel a stabbing pain in my chest like I am also being sliced open. I grab at the point of pain. My hand is instantly covered in warm pulsing blood. The priest pulls out the heart. I collapse to the ground, sense a void in my chest. He raises the organ to the heavens and the cloudless sky opens releasing a deluge. Rain from a cloudless sky?

The people leap to their feet, arms reaching to the skies shouting quiyahuitl, rain, and, Tlaloc, Tlaloc, Tlaloc. Puma pushes against the cage. The slats bulge. A loud thunderclap echoes, the slats splinter. Puma squeezes through. Miztli is free. The priest raises the ax and severs the infant’s head. Not even Christ had to suffer such an indignity.

The ground is too hard to absorb the water. The deluge becomes a flood, a land river. a mile wide and inches deep. My vision fades to a tunnel, a shrinking tunnel. I can’t move. My body rises with the swelling water, floats with the stream. What happened to my roots? A shadow hovers over me. Teeth grip my neck with just enough force to control my movement while not breaking the skin. I am being pulled. Am I going to be eaten? My vision goes black.

The River Cave

I come to consciousness in a cave. No idea how long I’ve been unconscious. My legs lay in a shallow rivulet. I sweep my mouth. No gold coin. I’m not dead. This is not the river Styx or maybe it is and Charon is waiting in the wings for death to complete its task then ferry me across.

“No, David. You are not dead.”

A voice? Who is talking to me? I look around. There is only Puma and me. It must be Puma that’s talking. I should be surprised but am not. I’ve experienced enough mysteries in the spirit world in the past year or so, an ancient ghost Grandfather, a talking Rattlesnake, a talking Gecko. And who knows how many spirits I failed to recognize. I seriously doubt anything can surprise me anymore. I don’t want to be rude here. “What shall I call you?”

“You may call me Puma or Cougar or Miztli whichever. You don’t really need to call me anything. We can easily communicate with our spirit minds. Words are unnecessary.” Puma is sitting stoically exuding the regal air of royalty.

“Spirit mind? I have a spirit mind? That means I am a spirit? Doesn’t that mean I am dead?”

“You have died many times. In this moment, you are alive. I can’t speak for future moments.”

“Alive in the earthly sense?”

“Yes, alive in the earthly sense. You are a living human being.”

“If it is all the same with you, I prefer we talk with words. I don’t want you wandering inside my mind. Hell, I get uncomfortable wandering inside my mind. I wouldn’t want to put that suffering on you.”

“As you wish. I will stay out of your mind. I, however, may revert to spirit mind. I have trouble correctly pronouncing words in your language. Thoughts are easier because they live outside the restricted confines of language.”

I stand up, move to higher ground, shake the water off my hiking boots. I’m feeling chilled in the cave’s coolness. The water exacerbates the chill. “That’s fine by me. Are you the same Miztli I saw at Teotihuacán?”

“That I am.”

I pat my chest. There is no blood. No wet blood. No crunchy dried blood. No evidence I bled at all. I feel the rhythmic beating of my heart. “Why did you not talk to me then? I tried. You purposely avoided me.”

Puma’s long wheat gold tail flicks in time with our conversation.

“It was neither the time nor the place. The Wanderers abhor sharing their spirit world with Europeans. If I had communicated with you, they would have raised a ruckus. There’s no need to inflame their agony. Five hundred years trying and failing to move to the afterlife has a way of deepening a grudge. They hold a might big grudge against your kind.”

“I wasn’t them. I had no part in the armageddon inflicted on the Aztec empire.”

“In the eyes of the Wanderers, all of you are guilty, all of you carry the spilt blood of the Aztec in your wretched souls. If they had the ability, they would wage a holy war against you not stopping until every white in your world suffered a similar living hell, forever shut outside the door to your heaven.”

“Grandfather said my bloodline runs through the original inhabitants of the Americas. I am one of them.”

“You are and you are not.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You will understand in good time. If not during your visit with me then during another of your destinies.”

“So, I have more destinies?”

“That was an assumption on my part. I am not a future seer like Grandfather.”

“Where are we?”

“We are in the Great Temple of Cholula.”

“I feared so. But, don’t you mean Great Pyramid?”

“To us, it is and always has been a temple. It is only you outsiders that call our temple a pyramid.”

“Why here? I don’t like being stuck in small places.”

“Had I left you outside, in your condition, you would have drowned.”

“Ya, but this is all imaginary existence.” Why can’t he comprehend simple logic? Is he a lesser spirit than Grandfather?

“If you died out there, you would also be dead in what you call ‘real life’ as well. Death does not distinguish between layers of existence. It merely collects.”

“What do you mean, my condition?”

“You were exiting consciousness. You and ancient baby you…”

“Shit! That was me? I thought it looked like. I didn’t think it actually was me.” Why did I lie? There’s no need. I saw into it’s…my…soul. I knew we were one.

“Yes. The two of you, all of the previous yous, current you, and future yous are interconnected by a diaphanous web. What happens in previous lives impacts the next life. And what happens in future lives ripples back altering past lives which, in turn, affects every future life. Neither the future nor the past is set in stone. The further events are separated the less the energy the ripple has to impart change. The distant ends are highly viscous, change is minimal but not null. Your current life is the locus with extremely low viscosity. Think of current you as flowing water history adjusting course with every experience.”

“And when the baby died?”

“When baby you died the two loci were dangerously close. Both were highly fluid. Baby you’s death was flowing into current you’s existence. You felt the pain in your chest. You were moving into unconsciousness and would have died with baby you. If not, then current you would have asphyxiated in the water. I intervened. By pulling you away, I separated the loci allowing both to assume their own destinies. By pulling current you to higher ground and this chamber, I prayed you would not drown before regaining consciousness before the rising waters also filled this chamber.”

“Prayed?”

“As I said, I don’t see into the future like Grandfather. I am here at his behest. His hand has helped guide you since the beginning.”

“Beginning? Beginning of what?”

“The beginning of the beginning. Grandfather is an original.”

“You mean a god?”

“Not a god. An intermediary between the gods and creation.”

“You said before the rising waters also filled this chamber?”

“Yes, the deluge started when baby you died is the storm to end all storms. It is unleashing more water than this land has seen in the combined past twenty-three years.”

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Not possible. The rising waters have already blocked the exits.”

“Then we are going to drown?”

“Not necessarily. Grandfather said, when the time is right, a way will appear. I trust the ancient’s wisdom.”

“So we wait?”

“Yes. We wait. There are no other options.”

Fixated on the conversation, I hadn’t been paying attention to my surroundings. The water is now calf deep. Miztli leaps to a higher ledge with an elegance a prima ballerina could never muster. The tail still slowly flicking from side to side, a metronome keeping time. Time for what?

Conversation exhausted, for now, we dwell in silence. I hear the burble of water flowing over submerged rocks, the plink, plunk of water falling from the ceiling into the pool that is quickly swelling. I am now knee deep. I look for an escape route. There is one low tunnel mostly filled with water, an inlet filling our chamber. Probably the one Miztli dragged me through. I realize there are no lamps on the wall, no overhead holes for outside light to filter in. I wonder out loud, “How the hell am I able to see? And why am I seeing everything in monochrome?”

“David, I am allowing you to see through my eyes. I figured your fear would spiral out of control if you could only see blackness.”

“Very true. Drowning while stuck in a cave is, like, my ultimate nightmare, so, thank you.”

“What is the light cloud I see around you?”

“When you see in color you see the physical person. Monochromatic vision allows one to also perceive a soul. A light cloud indicates a kind aura. A dark gray is the other end of the kind evil spectrum.”

The inflow from the tunnel increases in pressure. The water rises faster. It moves from knee deep to chest deep in a matter of minutes. Puma leaps to the last visible ledge, one so close to the ceiling he or she must move into a crouched pounce position to fit. The tail flicks noticeably faster. His tension is also increasing.

“Miztli, are you male or female?”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I am male and female and third gender.”

I would purse the line further but the water has risen to my chin. I tippy toe and angle my head up for the last space of air. Miztli is getting wet too. Half his body is submerged. What to do? What to do? There’s nothing I can do. I’m losing balance in the rising water, I lean against the wall to steady myself. It feels flimsy. I push harder. It flexes ever so slightly. Another, more forceful push, a stone gives way and falls through. The water flows through knocking other stones loose. The hole widens.

“This is our escape,” Miztli says. “When this wall crumbles we will be caught in the torrent. Grab onto my tail with both hands and don’t let go. Let go and you will end.”

“What about you? You could drown, too.”

“I’m spirit. I’ll be ok. I’m not so sure about you. You better grab onto my tail now. The wall will collapse momentarily.”

I grab onto Miztli’s tail. It is softer than I expect and smaller in diameter. Holding onto it is difficult. It begins slipping. I loop it around in a circle tight enough to fit my hands. Miztli screams. Too late to redo my grip. The wall collapses and we are sucked through into a vortex. For one of the few times in my life, I am going with the flow.

Underground River

We are helpless in the rushing torrent. I cannot see, cannot control my body. I reassert my death grip on Miztli’s tail holding as if my life depends upon it because it does. Hopefully, the tail won’t break leaving me careening and bouncing my head off any submerged rocks or the rock walls. We twist and turn with the bends in the frigid river.

I am unsure if Miztli is directing us or has submitted to River intelligence taking us where we are supposed…are destined…to go. Which of my destiny lines are we traveling? Is it my line or Miztli’s line? Could this be an overlap of destinies? Are we on parallel destinies? If so, how long until we separate? I hope it is not until this crazy underground river journey comes to a peaceful end and I can lay under a warm sun to dry off.

Oomph! Damn rocks! I crash into and bounce off another something. Thankfully, most collisions are with surfaces softer than rock. Does that mean we have passed the boundaries of the pyramid? I want to open my eyes but worry the debris hitting my face will slice open my eyeballs. Unforgiving surfaces slam into me causing pain winces. I almost lose my tenuous grip on the tail. Is this what it feels like to go over a waterfall in a barrel? So far, none of the surfaces have felt sharp enough to pierce my flesh. But, I am so disoriented, so pumped with adrenaline I might not feel a gash, might not feel a severed limb.

We have been under for minutes? Longer? I can’t determine the duration. Time has lost meaning. How am I still conscious? I can’t have been under too long. My lungs are not burning from lack of oxygen. Then again, in this messed up between world, oxygen may be irrelevant. Am I spirit? Am I live? Am I Memorex?

The water grows warmer. Tropical. Red shadows play on my eyelids. Why aren’t we stopping? We’re not even slowing down. This would be a fun slip and slide if I were not so terrified. The water cools again, becomes uncomfortably chilly. Darkness embraces me. We slow down. There is smooth gravel beneath me, rocks worn by incessant water polishing their souls. Puma drags me onto a pebbly shore.

“David. You can open your eyes now and let go of my tail.”

I drop the tail. My hands are numb, legs wobbly. I ache all over from the rough and tumble ride. “Ok.” I open my eyes. I think I open my eyes. It’s black as pitch. “I can’t see anything.”

“Ah, yes. Human eyes. I will again allow you to see through mine.”

I pull myself to a sitting position, allow my vision to focus. “I…I can see now. I don’t think I will ever grow used to this monochromatic sight. It’s good for photography when I can adjust for colors but, real life, there aren’t any adjustment knobs. Where are we?”

“We are in a large cave system made by the river running at our feet.”

I smell a whisper of fresh air on the dank odor of the cave. The exit mustn’t be too far ahead. We are on a sandbar, no, a pebble bar. I stand, marveling at the great expanse of the cave’s interior. There are stalactites hanging from the ceiling, stalagmites growing from the floor. There are pillars where the two met. This must be an ancient cave. I cross an ankle-deep rivulet. The flowing water deposits tiny stones in my boots which work their way to the inner sole. I gingerly walk to a ledge along the wall, take a seat, and shake out my boots. There is something familiar about this cave. An undercurrent of fragrance I recognize. But from where?

Yum Kaax, the Maize God

It is then I see the Mayan fetish carved into the cave wall, the one my wife and I saw on our first trip to Belize. I wonder, is it Yum Kaax, the Maize god? We were in the jungle on a tubing trip inside a river caving system. It was the terminus of our route. The place we ate our lunch before the inner tube float back to the cave entryway. The guide told us the history of the fetish, how some Mayans sacrificed their firstborn under the belief their fecundity would soar resulting in the births of many additional children. Sacrifice the one for the many. If we waited here long enough, there was bound to be a tour group and I would be rescued. Did I need to be rescued? Are we really in the cave?

“Miztli, where are we?”

“We are in Yucatan.”

“Yucatan as in southern México?”

“In my world, there is no delineation by country. There is only mother Earth. To orient you, we are in the land you call Belize.”

A hear voices heading our way, voices and the splish splash of a paddle dipping in water. The rocks bounce sound carrying it quickly in these caves. I listen closely to the words. They are not Spanish or any other language I recognize.

“Miztli, what language are those people speaking?”

“They are speaking K’iche’, one of the Mayan languages.”

“Do you speak k’iche’?”

“As I told you, I am spirit. I have no need of language.”

I think I may have asked Miztli the wrong question. It is not where that is important. “Miztli, when are we?”

“We are in the time before the invasion of the Americas.”

“Is this before or after the sacrifices outside Cholula?”

“It is hard to say. Time in the spirit world is nonlinear. Before and after are irrelevant concepts. We exist at all points in time. I can’t accurately say if we are before or after Cholula. To me, they are the same time.”

I can see a halo from a torch bouncing off the cave walls and ceiling. The rhythmical splish splash of the oar grows louder, the voices clearer. Correction. The voice clearer. Only one person is speaking. The voice sings a repetition of sounds as if…as if…chanting?

A shallow dugout canoe paddled by a man slides onto the gently sloping sand and pebble shore. They are all standing in the canoe. How do they maintain balance with such ease? The chanter, who would turn out to be a priest, has a dark aura and stands in the front, the paddler, in the middle, and the woman in the rear both emit mid tone auras. I guess they, like most, beings are a mixture of good and bad.

The priest wears a plumed headdress of orange feathers standing in a half moon, vertical halo. Green feathers extended backward reminding me of a high knotted ponytail. He carries a staff. The top is carved into an animal, a demented jaguar or some other totem fetish I can’t figure out. A gold and turquoise pendant attached to what looks to be a deer hide lanyard hangs around his neck resting in the middle of his chest. It is exquisitely blue and polished to a sheen.

The priest exists first followed by the man and the woman who first bends down to gather a bundle. Food, I hope but, based on my Cholula experience, fear otherwise. The evidence confirming my fears was soon plain. The bundle was surrounded by an aura so light it appeared white. There was an innocent in the mix.

The woman is wearing a just past the knee length white skirt with a deeply notches circling the hem. The notches stop just before a horizontal golden band. Red lines crosshatch the dress forming a diamond pattern. He is in a white kilt with a red band just below the waist.

All three have strong Mayan noses, Roman in profile, tattoos. They are short by Western standards. The priest has raven’s whiskers tattooed on his face. The men are around five and a half feet, the woman under five. When they speak, they reveal teeth filed to points. It looks like two rows of jagged mountains with the peaks touching. Even in the torchlight, the whiteness is astounding.

The priest builds a fire. They must have brought the wood in the boat for there is no timber in the cave. The woman places the bundle on the natural rock shelf. There are corn stalks, ears of corn, and a baby, a very young baby. She picks him up. When she turns toward the fire, I realize he, too looks like me. I assume also a ginger but can’t tell in this colorblind state. Not again! But it may not even be me. I need to know so I inch closer. They are oblivious to my presence. I move closer yet for a better look. The torch throws a nimbus around the baby’s head. Shit! It is the spitting image of me. I twirl toward Miztli.

“Yes, David. This firstborn is you.”

“Firstborn? Wasn’t I also a first born in Cholula?”

“You have always been a firstborn, David.”

Another sacrifice? To what fucked up purpose? Absurd attempts to bend the gods wills to human wills? Assinine attempts to appease omnipotent deities? Are they to brainwashed to comprehend with omnipotence comes anything the god’s want? There is no need to trade a current life for rain or the potential for future children. Madness, all this, madness. Is ancient baby me nothing more than an oblation to appease a hungry god? Were my sacrificed lives atonements for the sins of others? None of this is right nor makes any logical sense. Religion and sensibility? Antonyms. Mutually exclusive concepts people hold in their heads denying the impossibility of coexistence.

“How many times, Miztli? How many lives have been a child sacrifice?”

“These two you’ve seen. A few more I can see scattered through your many past human manifestations.”

“Why me? Why was I chosen for sacrifice?”

“For reasons, I don’t know for sure. One possiblitity, you always return to life as a ginger. In this land, in all lands, you are an anomaly, a blue eye ginger in an ocean of brown eye ravens. So it has been with gingers through the ages. The people either fear or revere the extremely different. Albinos suffer the same curse. The fearful sacrifice because they are worried, the oddity, if allowed to exist, will bring bad luck upon the people. Better to destroy than risk potential suffering. The reverent trade the choicest diamond for a promise of future blessings.”

The chanting increases in pitch and cadence. I don’t want to look but can’t keep my eyes from watching. The burning fire emits a lovely scent reminding me of countless glorious evenings sitting around a campfire seeing flame reflections in smiling eyes moist from laughter. This may ruin fires for me forever. The priest walks in a circle around the couple waving a censer burning what smells like sweet sage. I have not seen sage in Belize. It must be a trade good from Northern peoples.

“What is the priest saying?”

“The priest is calling on the gods to accept a blood and burnt offering of a first born and return many child blessings on the couple that their line may not disappear from Earth.”

“Craziness!”

“Who can know the minds of the creator gods? What you are witnessing is a corn people’s belief. When an ear of corn dies, the seeds are scattered resulting in many more plants and a bountiful next harvest.”

“I…the baby me…is not corn.”

“No, but life is life is life.”

“What does that mean?”

“Only the gods can create life. All lives are valuable in the gods’ eyes. All lives exist to feed on and be food. In the end, it is simply a circle.”

“There’s no purpose in this insanity.”

“You are blessed with luck.”

“How is it lucky to be sacrificed as an infant?”

“Not all souls find another vessel to inhabit. Many are stuck between. To use your concept, a soul purgatory. You have, so far, been spared the non-existence existence. You have always found a suitable vessel to carry you through the four life cycles described by Grandfather.”

“I remember. He said I was in the fourth cycle, the final cycle before liberation.”

“Few, relative to the population, progress as far as you have. Many get stuck in one cycle for eternity never learning enough to shift. By being sacrificed pure, your soul was given a choice for the next vessel.”

“A choice?”

“Yes, a choice. Those who die after the age when they understand right from wrong must atone for their sins, pay for their crimes against creation.”

“A kind of Karma?”

“Yes. The baby you being sacrificed chose the Aztec vessel sacrificed at Cholula. Both were sacrificed why still sinless allowing the choice of positive energy vessel making phase shifts more likely. The positives have greater knowledge and shift the phases more easily.”

“So, I was sacrificed in Belize followed by Cholula.”

“Time is nonlinear, sometimes circular, frequently erratic. It is just as likely you were sacrificed first in Cholula then Belize. In circular time, you were sacrificed in Cholula before and after Belize and in Belize before and after Cholula. In spirit time, both sacrifices occurred simultaneously.”

“Crazy!”

“Only crazy because you exist in physical life. When you finally finish the fourth phase, transcend to spirit, and exist at every point in time, it will make sense.”

“So I will transcend?”

Miztli smiles, whiskers twitch, says nothing.

“¿Miztli?”

“It is my understanding, you are on your way, that it is one of your possible destinies. Remember, only being a present, past seer, I can’ know for sure. But, Grandfather has given you special attention so I expect you will achieve spirit existence. Or Grandfather likes playing games meaning there is a distinct possibility you are stuck.”

“What is the stuck between, soul purgatory you mentioned?”

“All in good time, David.”

“Is not all time good, Miztli?”

“Yes.”

“Then now is a good a time as any so tell…aah!” A hot pain sears into my chest cavity.

The priest places the heart on top of the Mayan fetish then throws the still twitching corpse into the fire. My eyes burn as if touched by habanero oil. My skin sizzles. Puma grabs me and drags me into the river separating the life ripples between me and baby me from interfering with each other.

The water is thick, tastes of blood. Why couldn’t it be wine? I can’t breathe. Struggling, I grab Miztli by the nape to steady myself, find a way to the surface. A great surge as if a dam has burst slams into us breaking my hold on Miztli. I am thrown about like a rag doll, tumbling head over heels. Blackness engulfs me. I fear my premonitions, my reoccurring dreams that I’m fishing in still waters with my dad, have come true and I am dead again.

Isla de las Muñecas (Island of the Dolls)

After another long body numbing journey rendering me completely disoriented, I surge upward until I’m thrown clear of the waters and crash back down onto a muddy embankment. I lay still dappled by the sun filtering through verdant leaves in what appears to be a jungle. But where exactly am I? And what has happened to Miztli? I scan the area.

There are paths radiating from the pool. They are all too narrow to have been made by humans, probably the natural outcome of small animals sneaking in for water under cover of night. I pick the one lined with the most colorful flowers to explore. I’m thankful for the return of color vision for I love being bedazzled by colors. But wish I still had the ability to detect a person’s aura. I don’t know who I will encounter wherever I am. Knowing if they are bent toward good or evil would be helpful in choosing to trust or flee.

The foliage is canopied 3 feet over the trail. Too low for me without crawling. I force my way through suffering the slapping of tree branches and small cuts on my legs, face, and arms. The sound of scampering feet is in front of me. They stop then start when I get near moving off a short distance. The leaves prevent me from seeing what type of animal I’m spooking. Strange that it would not just flee far, far away. I fight the attacking branches for another fifteen sweaty minutes before breaking into a clearing nearly devoid of leaves. I drop to my knees and plant my head on the cool ground. Oh, that feels good. But it smells musty.

When the coolness of earth seeps into me, I right myself to a kneeling position which doesn’t last long because my knees ache when deeply bent. It’s painful to raise myself from a squat. I grab a thin tree using it to pull myself into a standing position. When fully erect, I’m staring directly into the face of a weathered, plastic doll. It’s naked, bald, pink, and blue-eyed. The left leg is broken off at the knee leaving jagged plastic exposed.

I jump back. There are more. A black hair rag doll above, another plastic doll, headless lower on the tree. I whirl around almost falling in the process. There are dolls in all the trees. Some are tied, others nailed, still, others wedged between branches. Naked dolls. Clothed dolls. A spiderman doll. A construction worker doll. Stuffed animals, too. I want to run but every which way is blocked by this army of grungey dolls.

Doll Island

Doll Island

Doll Island

“Where the HELL am I?” I scream.

“David, you are at one of the Islas de las muñecas.”

“Miztli? Is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“We are outside the spirit realm. I’m only visible in the spirit realm.”

“This is real? This is sickening? How is it you can talk? Can you and see me?”

“I can see you.”

“What is this muñecas place?”

“Remember when I told you, you were lucky to find vessels so quickly?”

“Yes.”

“This island is filled with the souls not so lucky as you. This is their purgatory.”

“Purgatory as in the intermediate state after physical death where souls await expiatory purification?” I find it enjoyable showing off my school smarts.

“No. That is another case of organized religion usurping a spiritual state and applying their own irrelevant concepts in an erroneous attempt to explain.”

“Then, please explain it to me.”

“The beings you see here…”

“Beings…you mean they are not dolls?”

“Yes and no. The beings you see here are awaiting suitable conditions for their next birth.”

“This feels like an island of misfit toys.”

“Most are societal misfits. This island is populated primarily with those who committed evil in their previous lives. The vessels they have tried to enter rejected them. Those with a positive aura quickly find a new vessel. The evil must wait.”

“So, the vessels are not simply births yet to be?”

“Correct. Both the vessel and the soul are spirits. They combine to be a new being in birth. Each can reject the other. Vessels look for souls with a pure aura that will, hopefully, enable them to maintain their physical integrity outside senseless violence. Souls are less finicky. They prefer one of the few vessels likely to be born to a life of leisure but will settle for significantly less. You see, it is the soul that determines the goodness or badness of the birthed being. So, a bad soul will choose a substandard vessel with the ultimate goal of achieving power and wealth by whatever means it takes.”

“Freaky!”

“Some of the souls on this isla have, over time, deeply meditated on their ways and migrated away from evil toward goodness so there are some with lighter auras. They are few for a jaguar almost never changes their spots. They are more likely to combine with a vessel. Of course, some revert back to evil so the vessels are leary and play it safe. Some of the souls have dwelt here for ages.”

“Is Cortés here?”

“Yes, along with many of the marauding invaders.”

“And the dolls?”

“The dolls are put up by the locals to trap evil. The souls see the dolls then, thinking they are available vessels, crawl inside and wait for rebirth. If they were not waiting in the vessels they would scour the countrysides looking for a living vessel to steal. There are rare instances when stealing is possible.”

“There does not seem to be enough dolls on the island to hold the world’s evil.”

“This is one of many doll islands in México. Still, you are correct, there are not enough. Evil continually leaks into the physical world. If it’s not leaking then new evil is generating. The nefarious activities of humanity are never-ending. Just when we think America is on a positive path, racists of all colors ooze from their slime committing heinous acts.”

“Yes. I do live in a corrupt world.”

“Do not think you are immune. Every time you look the other way, every time you don’t speak up when you see a person being shamed, you are complicit in creating space for evil to flourish. You are part of the problem, David.”

Ok. This was getting uncomfortable. I knew I wasn’t perfect but am not in the mood to have it thrown in my face. Come to think of it, there’s never a time when I like my foibles given voice. I need to smoothly change the topic. “How do the locals know to put up the dolls?”

“In days long past, there were powerful empaths with insights into the spirit world. They placed straw dolls to fool the souls. There are very few powerful empaths living today but the custom has become deeply rooted and the locals continue the tradition believing the dolls have the power to trap ghosts. The souls are not actually trapped, just fooled into believing birth is imminent. They don’t leave for fear they won’t find another vessel willing to accept them.”

“Why do all souls congregate here?”

“They do not. It’s common practice to put dolls out in yards, on verandas, in windows to catch the ghosts. When they believe one has been caught, the dolls are brought here because souls are unable to cross the water.”

“That’s a silly superstition.”

“No. It is true. The souls are incompatible with water. Once here or any of the islas, they are stuck until they encounter a vessel or hitch a ride on a living empath.”

“I guess, I can’t see the auras because I’m not an empath?”

“Almost correct. You are weak in your empathic abilities, still, stronger than most.”

“Hmmm…you’ve had me in spirit realms twice today. Why can’t you help me see these?”

“I can.”

“But you won’t.”

“This place is laden with evil. Seeing strong evil even in aura form has a way of damaging the human psyche. I’m not sure you have strength enough to protect yourself.”

“I want to try. If I feel any discomfort whatsoever I’ll shut my eyes and you can disconnect from me.”

“I warn you, the damage inflicted can come quick.”

“You will be inside my head. You can use your attuned spirit to protect me.”

“Ok. As you wish. Close our eyes.”

“Close them? But I want to see.”

“Once I have bridged our minds, you may open them. It is easier if you’re not distracted.”

“Gotcha, boss.” I close my eyes and wait one minute, two minutes. I feel nothing. Was Miztli messing with me?

“No, I am not. Open them slowly and remember, if anything feels out of place, slam them shut.”

I open them a sliver but am unable to make out anything beyond the blur of my eyelashes. Fuck it. I open them wide. Color is gone. That’s still a freaky feeling. The dolls have auras. All of them are deep black, black so black all light is absorbed. It feels like my energy is being siphoned out of my body. I become light-headed. I grab onto a tree to keep from falling and close my eyes until balance is restored.”

“Are you ok, David?”

“Um…sure…I’m ok.”

“I reopen my eyes and look around.” They black auras seem to be energized, little sparks light them up. The dolls start moving. “Miztli, the dolls…”

“What about the dolls?”

“They…they are moving.”

“They’re moving. How are they moving?”

“They all turn their heads, the ones that have heads, the ones with eyes are staring at me. I’m getting scared.”

“David, quickly close your eyes.”

I try to shut them but they are stuck like they are propped open with little sticks as in the old cartoons. “I can’t. I CAN’T”

“I’m disengaging from you. Hold on a moment. There. We are separate again.”

I feel a pop like when a wine cork is freed from the bottle. “Um…I can see color and I can see the auras. How can I see both? I thought you said that was not possible.”

Miztli paces frantically keeping himself between me and the closest dolls. “I said it was only possible for very strong empaths. This is not good. Worse. This is bad. You must be stronger than I believed possible.”

“Miztli, the dolls are climbing down from the trees. A couple are hobbling. One without legs is crawling. They are coming toward me!” A zombie apocalypse of dolls is coming for me. Are the flesh eaters? Are they soul eaters? What happens to a soul eaten by evil zombie dolls? Would I too become evil? Would I be stuck on this island until finding a suitable vessel?

Escape

“Listen closely. There must be more to your spirit than I am able to sense. Whatever it is, it has disturbed the souls. They, in turn, have animated the dolls. The only explanation is they see you as a way off this island.”

“Shit!”

“When I tell you, you need to run as fast as possible back to the pool through which we entered. Don’t look back. Don’t stop no matter what you hear or feel. You got that?”

“Y…yes.”

“Dive into the pool and swim down the throat as far as possible. You will come to a lip. Swim horizontally beneath the island until you are past the edge. Then swim upward angled away from the island. You will pop up in the waterways of Xochimilco. There are many boats traveling the canals. One of them will surely take you in.”

“What about you? I can’t leave you behind.”

“I will keep the dolls from following you. I’m spirit not physical. They can’t hurt me. I’ll be ok.”

I run back along the path I took to the clearing. It is easier this time with the branches I broke on the way in. Still, running is a challenge. Roooaarrrr. Miztli is screaming. Is it pain or a diversion. I want to go back and help but She said not to. There are black auras in my peripheral vision. They are coming. How fast can they move? Roooaarrrr. I can’t wait to find out and run faster and longer than I have since my soccer playing days. When I think I can’t take another step the forest clears.

I’m at the pond. My hiking boots won’t do for swimming. I squat and fumble finger the laces until I can kick the boots off. I hate to lose these. The plants are rustling. I consider removing my pants but half nakedness will be hard to explain to anyone rescuing me. The pond is not wide, about my body length. I dove in shallow water as a kid and hit bottom. I was lucky not to break my neck. I dive in. No resistance. I’m in the throat. I should be safe now but can’t be sure. The adrenaline is in high gear driving me into the dark depths.

I cannot see. Navigation requires reaching out to the wall and feeling for the lip. I’m not a strong swimmer. I don’t know how long I can hold out. The wall ends. I turn left and kick like a mad man probing the top with my fingers searching for the end. The bottom of the island is not smooth like the throat through which I descended. Something sharp slices into a finger. I pray its only exposed tree roots and not a colony of snaggle tooth critters with a hankering for warm flesh. I use quick slaps with my knuckles to test if I’m still under the island. The first time, I hit nothing I angle 45 degrees and shoot for the surface.

My lungs are burning. I need oxygen. How much further? Is it possible to die without sucking in lungs full of water? If I don’t breathe will I pass out then float to the surface? No. I will probably inhale and drown. My mind starts fading. I kick frantically, pump my arms doing my best to claw my way to the surface. I break through and suck in fresh air too fast. My mind sees black spots. After that, things get hazy.

I vaguely remember someone calling, “Señor! Señor! ¿Necesitas ayuda?”

I think ayuda means help. “Sí. Sí.” I respond. I am pulled into a colorful boat and throw up before passing out.

Cholula Pyramid

“David.” The voice sounds muffled as if my ears are under water. But, I’m dry. I’m laying on my back on a very hard, uneven surface. The horizon is dimming to red. I don’t smell any water.

Sunset From Cholula Pyramid

Cholula Pyramid Stairs

“What are you doing in there, David? That area is off limits. Didn’t you see the fence?”

I pull myself to a sitting position. Look around. I’m outside Cholula. Cholula? And I’m on the mini-pyramid where the kids…where young David and the kids…were sacrificed to bring rain. How did I get here?

“David. You need to get out of there. It’s off limits. Get out before security throws you out and we all have to leave. I want to see the rest of the temple grounds.

“Uh…Ok.” My boots are next to me. I pull them on, lace ’em up, tie ’em snug. It’s much easier when terror is not running through the fingers. I hop off the pyramid, walk over to my wife and our friends.

“How did you get out here ahead of us? I didn’t see you pass us in the tunnel.”

“I took a different way, the uphill tunnel we saw.” A half-truth. To tell her the whole truth would be received as a full lie. To tell her I had another spirit world experience would do nothing more than raise her ire. I was able to talk her out of an MRI last time. The thought of being in one of those machines is scary. I doubt I could talk her out of it again. She thinks I have cancer.

“But that was gated.”

“The gate wasn’t locked so I took a side excursion.”

“Really?”

“Really.” She’s not good at hiding her feelings. I can see the annoyance in her knitted brow. We are with friends so nothing will be discussed now. She smiles and we continue our excursion.

What’s Next?

The trip did not end here. We visited another Pyramid, spent time walking the Puebla Zocalo. It’s a beautiful, relaxed city. But there was not a sign of Miztli anywhere.

Puebla Street

Puebla Cathedral

Puebla Cathedral

Sign in Puebla Zocalo

Door

Doors

Street: Cinco de Mayo

Yellow Building

Me Against a Wall in Puebla

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Puebla Street

Cross On Pyramid Mound

Cross On Pyramid Mound

Pyramid

Pyramide

View from Pyramid

View Up Pyramid

Pyramid & Clouds

Pyramid Stairway

Excavated Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Murals in Pyramid

Cinco de Mayo Square

Cinco de Mayo Square

I spent those last days lost. My last experiences in the spirit world concluded with a foretelling of a next step in my destiny of destinies. When I first met, Grandfather in New Mexico, he foretold of a trip to the Philippines. There I met Tukó who informed me I was on a vision quest. When I returned to New Mexico, Grandfather foretold the vision quest would continue with a trip to  New Mexico where I would meet Puma. Puma, though, told me nothing about my future. True, he said he was a past seer, not a future seer so would not have the future sight. So, I wonder, is this the end of my vision quest?

“Rooaar.”

    Puma & Pirámides in Old México This fifth sun, the sun of movement, illuminated the Toltecs and illuminates the Aztecs. It has claws and feeds on human hearts.

[edakaragoz-blog-blog]

Becoming The Person You Are

Human beings are highly complex organisms. We have language, thought, intelligence, and the capabilities to think, learn, and reason due to a highly impressive organ we call the human brain. Yet, despite these shared abilities, we possess different worldviews, personalities, and aspirations in life. Through social interaction, we expose ourselves to other people’s ideas and risk straying away from our own views.

It’s easy to say that we’re originals without taking into consideration the immense amounts of social influence that have hovered above us our entire lives. Starting from the moment we were born, our parents were there to give us a name and bring their baby home as if they owned us. Whether it was on a religious basis or not, their moral values were instilled in us for years on end. Now, how do we separate theirs from our own?

I grew up around my grandmother who was a firm believer in the after-life. She used to tell me that everything she did here on Earth was in preparation for Judgment Day. After all, this life was only a temporary one to see what your future would hold. It was a test to evaluate the choices you’d make and how you would distinguish right from wrong. My grandmother was living her life in fear of God and stripping the value out of her present life in hopes for the greatest after-life. According to Friedrich Nietzsche, “The great lie of personal immortality destroys all rationality, all naturalness of instinct, all that is salutary, all that is life-furthering.” I saw this happen firsthand with my grandmother when her actions were no longer natural human instinct; they were controlled by her overseer, who was God. Nietzsche aimed to encourage people to reevaluate how they value life and to be true to themselves with their motives. As humans, we are able to create and learn from experience. Through this instance, I was able to realize that this isn’t the manner in which I want religion to be a part of my life and it truly changed the way I view the decision-making behind my actions.

My grandmother’s outlook on life was clearly very different from Nietzsche’s. However, this didn’t mean that she was living life in a wrongful manner. In her eyes, this was the most fulfilling type of lifestyle she could’ve ever lived. Every action of hers was purposeful and at the end of the day she believed that it meant enough for her existence. This life on Earth was her preparation for her next life, but for some this life is the only life they know and choose to believe in. When I relate this back to the way I go about living, I’m not sure if there’s ever a way I could truly know whether this is the only life I’ll live. Therefore, I want to live as if this is my one and only chance by becoming an absolute individual and creating values on my own terms.

Nietzsche's conception of the “Übermensch” is a state of the human individual that I aspire to reach. It can be difficult to rid ourselves of all the influences encumbered upon us by society and the people we’ve surrounded ourselves with, to discover which ideas are truly our own, and who even manipulated our thinking in the first place. When we’re young, our parents work to ensure that we develop the critical thinking skills we need in order to be successful in school, in our future careers, and in life overall. We’re restrained from being free-spirited because we simply have not learned how to think for ourselves. We’re encouraged to look up to up to those who have lived longer than us because their experiences and wisdom gained from living will be the guide to conquering our own existence. After years of being conditioned to believe what others around us believe, Nietzsche encourages us to rid ourselves of these herd instincts and to become an Übermensch. He wants us to be liberated individuals with self-discipline in order to find the true value of our living. Without confusion, discovery, and the power of creating new perspectives, we’d remain as sheepish individuals who are unable to think for themselves. When we’re younger, a huge emphasis is also based on teaching us what’s right from what’s wrong as if there clearly is one answer. Robert Farris Thompson’s emphasis on  “mastery of self”  in An Aesthetic of the Cool has been crucial in my understanding of individuality. He writes, “…this philosophy of the cool is the belief that the purer, the cooler a person becomes, the more ancestral he becomes…mastery of self enables a person to transcend time and elude preoccupation.” As a result, when we start to develop and create our own principles rather than follow those of the crowd, we start to become prototypes, inspirations, and exemplary human beings distinguishing the “cool” from the “uncool.” We start to realize that there isn’t only one way of believing and what we’ve been taught may not always be the answer.

I’m governed by my parents, the law, my boss, my coach, my teachers, the principles of my religion… The list seems to never end. Nietzsche writes that, “Healthy, strong individuals seek self-expansion by experimenting and by living dangerously…The good life is ever changing, challenging, devoid of regret, intense, creative and risky.” In order to reach this so called “good life,” I must start to be flexible with my mind aside from all of the outside influence that has engulfed me over the years. I must learn to take risk and get rid of my comfort zone as it prevents me from discovering my true value of life.

This all seems simple to say, but how does one truly become a modern day Übermensch? How can we rebel against the constant pressures that are pressed upon us by our parents, our teachers, our friends, and the media? Is it worth choosing to pursue freedom if that means possibly enduring a painful and possibly lonely existence? Realistically speaking, not everyone will choose to be the best possible version of themselves. It takes willpower to expend the energy to restrain your brain from everything it once thought it knew. It will be your choice whether you decide to overcome yourself or not. After all, the act of rebellion can be a riskful and scary sight.

We keep emphasizing freeing ourselves from outside influences, but then we go about looking up to our ancestors and reading people like Nietzsche, Robert Farris Thompson, and W.E.B Du Bois for advice. Exposing ourselves to other people’s ideas is a risk at impairing our own, but I’ve started to realize the difference and importance in the way we interact with other people. For example, Nietzsche is trying to get us to change the way we understand our life and notice that the way we are currently living lacks true and deeper meaning. He wants us to question ourselves and rethink the meaning of our existence. Nietzsche’s philosophy might have been right, wrong, or neither. However, the presentation of his ideas can be a powerful motivator for individuals to take initiative and discover the meaning of their own lives. To let him guide our ideas will be a matter of our own choice.

If we decide to become an Übermensch, we must first start to become rational, open-minded thinkers. We must question ourselves and our current values in order to make up our own. As Nietzsche said, “No price is too high to pay for the privilege of owning yourself.” In order to become who we really are, we must not be afraid to risk being misunderstood, to go against what’s conventional, to make value out of our existence, to defy the sheep, and to be open-minded enough to find our own way through life.