The last place I expected to wind up when I decided to take six weeks off work and go backpacking around Asia was sitting on the top of a mountain with a monk in a forgotten temple to some even-longer-forgotten sky god eating cupcakes laced with some kind of hallucinogen.
"Should I, like, open my mind, or something?" I'd asked before taking the first bite. He just laughed.
"You won't need to," he answered. I'd soon found that his English was, academically speaking, better than mine. I don't quite know why that came as a surprise. "Your mind is already open, or you won't be here."
I stared at the cupcake. "So... what's the point, then?"
He tapped the cake and lifted my hand towards my mouth with one finger. "Your mind is open already," he said again. "This will open your eyes."
I ate. It was tasty.
It was only later, once he had sprouted wings and the walls of the temple were crumbling around us, that I started to think that I'd preferred it when my eyes were still closed.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Wednesday, 27 February 2013
228. Handstand
When I was a child I had a habit of walking on my hands. I would spend as long as possible upside down, looking at the world through heavy, bloodshot eyes.
The trees outside our house had grown up through the concrete, splitting the grey earth like paper pushed through with a pen. I once told my father that they looked like tears running down the face of the sky when I was upside down.
He cocked his head and looked at me with concern. "That's sad," he said. "Why would you want to see the world like that?"
I didn't know the answer then, but I do now. Because when I came down off my hands and looked at the world the right way up again the trees had stopped looking like tears. Instead they looked like what they were; creatures, living creatures like me, that had burst loose from their shackles and reached for the stars.
When I came down off my hands, the world smiled and gave me hope.
The trees outside our house had grown up through the concrete, splitting the grey earth like paper pushed through with a pen. I once told my father that they looked like tears running down the face of the sky when I was upside down.
He cocked his head and looked at me with concern. "That's sad," he said. "Why would you want to see the world like that?"
I didn't know the answer then, but I do now. Because when I came down off my hands and looked at the world the right way up again the trees had stopped looking like tears. Instead they looked like what they were; creatures, living creatures like me, that had burst loose from their shackles and reached for the stars.
When I came down off my hands, the world smiled and gave me hope.
227. From The Mud
I move him on to the clay, the little man I have sculpted with my own hands. Perhaps sculpted isn't the word. Birthed, maybe? That feels more accurate.
His feet settle in the moist clay beneath them and he takes his first tentative steps. I let out the breath I have been holding, the one I drew after I had breathed my magic in to him.
He works. He lives. All is well.
Soon he will grow. The rune carved into his forehead will keep him loyal to me. He will learn grace and will gain strength. He, too, will learn to shape the clay that he was born from. One day he will discover that a sharp edge can cut, that he can carve down his enemies and send them back to the mud.
On that day I will have use for him. Until then, though, I will allow him his freedom.
His feet settle in the moist clay beneath them and he takes his first tentative steps. I let out the breath I have been holding, the one I drew after I had breathed my magic in to him.
He works. He lives. All is well.
Soon he will grow. The rune carved into his forehead will keep him loyal to me. He will learn grace and will gain strength. He, too, will learn to shape the clay that he was born from. One day he will discover that a sharp edge can cut, that he can carve down his enemies and send them back to the mud.
On that day I will have use for him. Until then, though, I will allow him his freedom.
226. The Birds
When he first arrived at the house Saul was immediately struck by the noise from the aviary out back. It only held five birds - large black and purple things that he could find no name for, no reference point for in his head - but they were loud, their cries like those of babies gone without milk for too long, or cats in heat.
"You'll get used to them," his host told him. "Give it a few days and it'll be like they aren't even here."
He gave it a few days. He didn't get used to it.
The worst was when they would start up screaming in the night. He would awaken with a start, ripped out of swirling dreams that slipped away as soon as he tried to remember them and instead pulled in to the waking nightmare of that noise. It made the nights seem hotter, somehow - like the birds were screaming fire into the night that roasted him while he slept.
"I can't cope with it," he said over breakfast one morning. He didn't know what day it was, had already lost track of time and had slipped in to a fog of sleep deprived numbness.
"You'll get used to it," his host repeated.
"No," he mumbled, "I won't." He wasn't sure if his host heard him.
One night he woke confused. It was dark, and cool, and it took him far too long to realise that it was also quiet. The birds weren't screaming.
He looked over to the window, where the thick curtains hung limp against the wall. A chink of light showed through the gap between them, bright white light that could never have been natural. He dragged himself out of bed and crossed the room to peer through the gap in the curtains.
His host was standing in the aviary completely naked, a thick red bathrobe on the floor at his feet. The birds were high up in the rear of the aviary, as though they had fled from the host until they could go no further.
As he watched, his host spread out his arms wide and threw back his head. His voice rose up to the window, high and strong, but Saul couldn't make out the words.
Then, with a ripple and a rending of flesh, dark feathers began to sprout from his host's back as his arms began to bend in ways no elbow was designed for.
Saul fell back from the window, watching transfixed as his host's face lengthened and sharpened, as his profile stretched and warped.
Screaming reaching his ears again, and this time his own voice joined it.
"You'll get used to them," his host told him. "Give it a few days and it'll be like they aren't even here."
He gave it a few days. He didn't get used to it.
The worst was when they would start up screaming in the night. He would awaken with a start, ripped out of swirling dreams that slipped away as soon as he tried to remember them and instead pulled in to the waking nightmare of that noise. It made the nights seem hotter, somehow - like the birds were screaming fire into the night that roasted him while he slept.
"I can't cope with it," he said over breakfast one morning. He didn't know what day it was, had already lost track of time and had slipped in to a fog of sleep deprived numbness.
"You'll get used to it," his host repeated.
"No," he mumbled, "I won't." He wasn't sure if his host heard him.
One night he woke confused. It was dark, and cool, and it took him far too long to realise that it was also quiet. The birds weren't screaming.
He looked over to the window, where the thick curtains hung limp against the wall. A chink of light showed through the gap between them, bright white light that could never have been natural. He dragged himself out of bed and crossed the room to peer through the gap in the curtains.
His host was standing in the aviary completely naked, a thick red bathrobe on the floor at his feet. The birds were high up in the rear of the aviary, as though they had fled from the host until they could go no further.
As he watched, his host spread out his arms wide and threw back his head. His voice rose up to the window, high and strong, but Saul couldn't make out the words.
Then, with a ripple and a rending of flesh, dark feathers began to sprout from his host's back as his arms began to bend in ways no elbow was designed for.
Saul fell back from the window, watching transfixed as his host's face lengthened and sharpened, as his profile stretched and warped.
Screaming reaching his ears again, and this time his own voice joined it.
225. The Wild One Of The Woods
The boy hides in the treetops, waiting. Below him the ground is lined with debris from his past conquests; a sickle, wrenched from the hands of the God of the Harvest; a butterfly, frozen in space and time by the power the boy had stolen from the Gorgon; a ring of trampled mushrooms, each hiding the broken body of a sharp-toothed fairy.
Somewhere in the distance the trees are shaking. The beast is coming, he is sure; that chimeric monstrosity, lion-bodied with a human torso, face green and lined with leaves, wings dark and smoking.
He pictures it, the way this needs to unfold. The beast will step beneath him and he will reach out with his terrible claw, this mark of his birth. The tail will be swinging, high and proud, and in moments he will have taken hold of it and pulled the beast from the ground.
From there, the only way this can go is the way of the sickle and the butterfly and the fairies. The beast will not know what is coming. It won't know how to react. It won't have a chance.
Once upon a time a boy hid in a treetop, completely unaware that the eyes of the beast had found him already...
Somewhere in the distance the trees are shaking. The beast is coming, he is sure; that chimeric monstrosity, lion-bodied with a human torso, face green and lined with leaves, wings dark and smoking.
He pictures it, the way this needs to unfold. The beast will step beneath him and he will reach out with his terrible claw, this mark of his birth. The tail will be swinging, high and proud, and in moments he will have taken hold of it and pulled the beast from the ground.
From there, the only way this can go is the way of the sickle and the butterfly and the fairies. The beast will not know what is coming. It won't know how to react. It won't have a chance.
Once upon a time a boy hid in a treetop, completely unaware that the eyes of the beast had found him already...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)