Land of the Living“Feel like walking to the bats?” Li Po’s voice is almost inaudible as he hands his shaman a ceramic stein of mixed fruit juice. “If you’re up to it, of course…”
“Feel free to stay here...” Lady Titania’s solicitous tones leave the rest of her thought unvoiced; …Now that Anna’s gone. The Centraxian prince is tempted by her offer, but decides to go for a stroll beneath the glowing night sky when he sees the forlorn distraction wavering in her eyes. ‘The bats’ are a quiet clifftop refuge of huge dreaming fig trees, just across the dark, wild, park-like vale beyond Titania’s cottage - and not far from Ram’s home in the ancient wooden servant’s quarters of a crumbling stone Vestry, part of the once great Saint John’s estate.
Li Po peers through the window at the rising quarter moon and Ram’yana can feel his lissome yearning to be outside, bathed in argent light in the fresh midnight air of the
“To be reborn,” Ram’yana concludes. “Many thanks.” He bows to Lady Titania. “By thy pardon, milady – the bats call.” The frozen clay of the earth in the living clay of his fingers contains the fresh fluid essences of life itself, rapidly oxidising and transforming even as the prince drains the stein dry. “Aye,” he says, turning to Li Po and wiping the thin teenage strands that emerge from his upper lip, “let’s go for a stroll.”
Midnight approaches as they take turns kissing Titania farewell. The couturier and trainee nurse shakes her dark curls as she holds their hands in her own, silently admonishing the younger teens for the vibrant knife-edge of terror they’ve suspended her upon during the past few hours. Ram’yana espies a glinting flash beneath the sideboard and retrieves the simple silver flute protruding onto the glossy tiles, surprised at the spryness of his springy young limbs.
“Aye, ‘tis thine,” she says. “I could never get a sound out of it.”
“Nor eye,” agrees the prince. “Never been able to play a side-flute – but on this special night I’ll give it another try.” Li Po picks up the wooden treble recorder and the tripping hippie youths take their leave. They thread their way through the trees lining the worn sandstone steps leading to the valley below, where the bat totem fig trees beckon upon the precipitous cliff top, looming over them in the half-light luminescence of the
They enter the smashed forest and lantana scrub lining the base of the valley, a damp, weed-shrouded mass of night-shrouded mounds rearing all around them. The forgotten stream that once flowed through an ancient forest is sunk beneath the debris of generations of colonist invaders of the Great Southland. The Centraxians’ experienced bare feet find safe ways through the refuse-strewn, moon-shadowed depths of the vale, sensing unseen obstacles and striding over or around the ubiquitous broken bottles and torn shards of metal. They follow ancient submerged animal tracks and Aboriginal walking paths that flow along the line of least resistance.
The young shaman prince feels the living breath of the decimated yet untamed wilderness filling him with sustenance - inhabiting him, filling him with life, light and levity while Li Po leads him through the half-light, wending his way up the sloping foot of the cliff. The bard lifts the recorder to his lips and a unique Chinese-Irish ballad announces their presence to the spirits of the place – and any lovers or fighters who may be lurking in the bushes.
Ram’yana goes easy on his body, but few signs of his recent death linger to hinder him - aside from the dark feathery shapes of his damaged veins spreading their opaque fronds across his field of vision. His heartbeat is slow and regular and his breath flows freely as he follows the piper to the clifftop that rears over the dark denuded valley.
The lights and lamps of surprisingly few night owls burn in the dark windows of the thousand-odd houses lining the unstable strata of the precipitous gorge. The bard and the shaman thread their way through the half-lit wonderland of abandoned vehicles, piles of illegally dumped building debris and tenacious native plants engaged in a long, pyrrhic war with introduced exotic invaders.
Li Po’s haunting melody stops when he finally needs at least one hand to climb through the tufted hummocks of grass-covered abandoned dreams. Their well-known route leads them through the smashed eye of a widespread broken glass needle, skirting the open shafts of bottle mines and amateur archeological digs. They arrive with breath to spare at the screeching locus of the bat colony on the summit of the ridge – the fig-studded Tree of Life and its equally ancient companion, standing in the backyard of a large, century old stone house; the huge
Their massive convoluted trunks, boughs, trailing aerial roots and overarching crowns have somehow remained when all the incredible bounty of nature around them was destroyed and replaced with bricks and bitumen, grassy lawns and pointless, sterile, shallow-rooted ephemeral flowers and easily maintained palms. The old bearded trees easily predate the invasion of the Eurosurpers, unlikely survivors of an almost bygone age; the prince of Centraxis identifies with them and the noisesome colony of bats that has found refuge here since time immemorial.
The expanse of the moon-dark gorge is spread before the magical musicians and the half-wild rim of nature’s survivors on the edge of the cliff is wonderfully silent. They’re surrounded on all sides by the dreaming minds of millions of sleeping wage slaves, aged slaves, bound students, housebound housewives and egotistical workaday males among the myriad bands of evolving primates.
A tall skeletal iron tower rears above the summit, beckoning to the apes lurking within the Centraxians’ hominid forms – but they won’t climb it tonight, to feel the wind blowing through their kite-tethered souls. Not on this particular occasion; one close experience with death is enough for any beautiful moonlit night - and they’re both still tripping through multicoloured auras and glyphs, listening to the vapourous breath of moonlit spirits and the unending stream of thoughts booming through the liquid-filled cavities of their craniums.
A single square termite tower block has erupted from the fertile soil of the valley’s base and stands fifteen stories high (so far), bedecked with insectoid cranes bearing winking red lights that equal the trees’ height as the Centraxians absorb the view from the brink of the cliff. The
“The fool on the hill,” Ram’yana thinks aloud.
“Two fools never worry who goes first,” Li Po announces to the bats in a mellifluous tone. His arms reach around the younger man and hug him close, the treble recorder hard against Ram’s spine as Li Po’s acrid masculine scent inhabits his nostrils. They stand in the moonlight, tripping and swaying in the breeze, feeling each other’s sustaining warmth in the early morning chill as the Asian bard’s arms enfold him. After a few moments they step apart and Ram’yana stares into the other youth’s glazed brown eyes, gauging the extent of his fond regard. Then the recorder touches Li Po’s inscrutable smile and the young man continues his breathy poem with an unprecedented spontaneous melody that echoes between the facing wall of the termite tower, to redouble from the cliff across the valley into the dwelling-infested subcity beyond.
Ram’yana’s flute gleams with fractured neon and the reflecting reflection of midnight sunshine, luring him to lose himself in the glowing cylinder’s elemental metal sheen. The song of its wooden twin transports him into the midst of the bright fantasy woven by Li Po, painting a portrait of the Tao in notes that disappear long before their echoes fade into the night. The rhythm slows to a peaceful theme with more pregnant silences than sparks of bounding activity, fading in volume beneath the onslaught of fruit bats and the distant roaring hum of a multitude of fume-farting metal beasts incessantly roaming the midnight maze.
Ram’yana is astounded by the note that erupts clear and loose from the cold metal flute. His body has moved without his noticing; he sits erect beside his friend and breathes deeply of the fragrant summer air, freshly cut grass, honeysuckle, jasmine and wild angel’s trumpet mingling in their rush to his lungs and mind. The sweet cloying scent of datura fills his nostrils, tempting a corner of his mind to taste the madness lurking within the nearest bush’s drooping white flowers as he inhales the blooms’ unforgettable fragrance.
The metal tube rises to his lips and the melody arrives of its own accord, attracting his hummingbird mind to hover around the magnetic moment. The notes arise in well-rounded tones and he closes his eyes while his fingers dance and play, able to effortlessly draw music from a ‘proper’ flute for the first time in this life. The tune flowing from his lips and fingers fills the empty spaces in Li Po’s tapestry and blends with his streaming notes in playful counterpoint, delighting and intriguing them both. The bats suddenly stop screeching and hang silent in an appreciative, ear-tweaking audience of hundreds, to give space for the pagan paean rising surprising in their midst.
The volume rises with the tempo and they’re all carried along in a sudden skirling dance, the unfathomable, unpredictable duet mesmerising the players along with their entranced leather-winged audience. Pinpoint lights blink on behind windows scattered across the gorge, and a handful of windows are thrown open – not closed – as the unprecedented, unrepeatable melody is carried on a vagrant breeze.
And somewhere within the wind that rises to their call, flurrying the leaves and bats and the musicians’ long dark hair, Ram’yana hears his name again, clear as an arpeggio played directly into his mind - and he remembers who he is and recognises the presence of the entity who has returned with him from the other side of oblivion.
As the living breath flows through him to pass into the flute and emerge into the endless ocean of atmosphere - on whose seafloor the young men huddle like blind singing crabs - he feels another Breath flowing through him, inducing a melody of thoughts and sensations that flare and foam through his trance-fixed mind. A light turns on inside his core, followed by another and another, illuminated by the dance of notes as the players strike simultaneous strata of nodes and harmonics. Ram’yana watches the melody light up the bright flowers of his chakras, strung through his core like glass beads on an invisible thread.
And there’s something else – someone else – an ephemeral butterfly/moth mantling his form with ectoplasmic wings, that descend from his Crown to caress and protect him. His feather-veiled vision is further transformed as each object before him is sheathed within a flow of motion. The immediate past and future is illuminated in trails and tails that lead and follow the material forms of the world, and Ram’yana can hear the notes before they manifest through the flute, to be repeated in an endless fading echo chamber.
The shaman can feel the presence breathing through him, coursing through his veins, looking through his eyes and tasting the brass flute through its mottled coat of silver. Another being is playing him as it plays through him, accustoming itself with his form and substance – a familiar and somehow welcome presence that’s a long-lost and newfound beneficent aspect of his being.
The expanded form of Ram’s self dissolves and becomes one with him while the bats sway in the breeze and clouds scud across the pocked face of the moon. The young musicians play their counterpoint paean to the bats and trees, the moon and stars, the dreaming sleepers and bright points of awareness marked out by the scattered lit windows. The eternal tunnel swirls around Ram’s feather-blinkered eyesight at the periphery of his perceptions, centred on his final vision of the refracted, self-containing field of infinite universes and the bright single verse - the life sentence he’s fallen back into.
He can still see the path the butterfly moth takes as it melds with him, expanding his awareness to encompass the hill on which he stands. Ram’yana suspects he’ll always be aware of the being that’s anchored to the world through his physical form; it’s the price and reward of his sojourn to the brink of the Other Side.
Li Po sleeps softly in his ragged clothes, reclining into a black bean bag by the black covered bed, draped in a thin black robe that serves as a blanket in the warm wee hours. They’ve made their way to the Ram’s black painted stone room, little more than a hundred paces from the cliff edge.
Patterns roil on the back of Ram’s eyeballs and feathering branches pulse across his vision. He’s managed to peer through the overlaying miasma to sketch the image from beyond the veil that glows in his mind’s eye, etching the swirled vortex on a lined piece of paper in the dim candlelight. But what to do with this fragile slip of paper? he wonders as he surveys his inadequate drawing of the universe seen from a perspective beyond time and space. When a cautious rapping sounds softly on the hardwood door he folds the diagram and slides it into his breast pocket. By my heart.
When he unlatches the old wooden door the Cold Wanderer slouches in the stark stone courtyard, his high brow and gleaming lenses luminescent in the cool glow of the late rising moon. “Awa Ken,” he drawls the traditional greeting of those of the Centrax.
“Awa Ken, Mon Ken,” the shaman replies in ritual reply. “Just in time for herbal tea. The pot’s still warm; chamomile and liquorice.” He turns the pot to settle the aromatic mulch of flowers and roots.
“Perfect for such a late hour,” the Canadian drawls. Ram’yana ushers the immigrant into his chamber and seats him in the only chair, a black curving eggshell standing on a heavy pedestal by the black marble desk. He pours a dark fragrant liquid into a pair of ceramic goblets bearing bas relief images of glazed vines and swollen grapes. He nods toward Lip Po to alert Wanderer to the youth’s sleeping form in the darkness of the corner. Wanderer acknowledges his fellow Centraxian’s presence with an arched eyebrow while blue flaring roils of colour flare around his head and shoulders in the candlelight.
“Mmm. Smells strong.” The visitor warms his hands on the goblet as he inhales. He takes a sip and continues in a hushed voice. “Do yer feel like traveling a thousand miles or more?” His feline grin spreads. “Down south?”
The long day has been an eventful one and the invitation comes as no great surprise. Ram’yana’s overwhelming sense of immanence signals more adventures to come and he feels amazingly healthy and well rested. “Hast thou heard from Kha-Aan?” he asks. “Art thou aware…”
“Yer can lay off the medieval crap,” Wanderer smiles. I saw him not two hours ago,” Wanderer nods over his cup. “He sends his warm regards – and inquires if yer know anything about some dragon or other.” Wanderer’s blue-grey eyes flash at him through their thick windowpanes. Ram’yana finds himself frozen to the spot, unable to frame a reply while the emerald green outline of a green dragon swims before his eyes. “He was well and hearty,” Wanderer continues, “and he was being particulary well ministered to by Rene and Liz when I left him; I heard what happened. So what do yer say? Do yer want to hitch south?”
Ram’yana searches the room for a safe location to stash the folded diagram. “When did ye have in mind?” He scans the black walls and furnishings, but no location seems appropriate to store the carefully etched picture of the universe.
“In the morning. I was hoping to catch yer awake…””
“It is the morning.”
“All right then – how does eight o’clock sound?”
“That’s only about four hours away…” Ram’yana gauges his endurance and the state of his body. “Sounds like a grand idea – but one that calls for the cards. Or would you prefer the Ching?” The hardbound book sits by Wanderer’s elbow on the desk.
“I don’t need any oracle to tell me what I already know. It’s high time to hit the road, first thing in the morning before I fully come down. But I guess it can’t do any harm. The Ching it is,” he shrugs.
“You’re tripping too?” Ram’yana asks, refilling the goblets. Wanderer smiles at him and the young shaman sees the beads of sweat on his high forehead and the dilated pupils glittering through the young man’s thick-lensed glasses.
“It’s been a long night,” Wanderer affirms obliquely.
The Centraxian blood brothers prepare to consult the oracle, mulling a mix of leaf and tip to pack into the small brass pipe Wanderer produces for the occasion. Ram’yana lights two more tapers while Li Po snores softly, and the extra candlepower is swallowed up by the black walls, ceiling and furniture. The tribal shaman unties the string that seals a long velvet pouch and decides to forego the bundle of fifty dried yarrow stalks in favour of the more modern version of the oracle. The magician warms the brass disks in his palms, infusing them with the moment.
Three worn brass coins bearing Chinese characters fall six times on a piece of black velvet that the shaman uses to swathe the stone-topped desk. The spinning disks divine the weaving elements as they fall, defining the supplicants’ current coordinates within the ever-changing currents of Nature. The Centraxians lean forward to examine the resulting hexagram of horizontal lines and dashes while Ram’yana draws the second set produced by changeable aspects of the first design.
“As you see, we have changing lines; two hexagams to interpret,” Ram’yana announces. “Firstly, Fire on the Mountain.” Ram’yana grins.
“‘The Wanderer’,” the Canadian smirks. “And the moving lines?”
“The prognosis is good. ‘Perseverance furthers,’ as usual. But there’s a choice as well, a fork in the road. The journey can go two ways. One’s fraught with peril, like a cliff-side path…”
“As I said, I’m going either way.” The anarchist is undeterred and unaware of the double meaning inherent in his words. “‘The Wanderer’ often portends a lone journey…”
“But not so the lines or the second hexagram,” the young shaman reminds him. “Looks like thy trip won’t be lonely after all. As thou canst see – even the perilous path can lead to success… while the well-trod track can split further….
“There’s still no sign of dawn. Do you really want to leave so early?” the young shaman asks, packing the oracle away in its velvet veil.
“I’ll not sleep tonight – if we get away early, so much the better. How’s dawn suit you?” Wanderer is his usual self, direct to the point of abruptness.
“No rest for the Wiccan, eh? Sleep can’t claim me tonight, either – but let’s wait ’til after peak hour. The coast road?”
“Well, it is the Prince’s Highway after all.” Wanderer smirks as he drains his goblet.
“And the
“So yer still in search of a princess?” The Canadian rolls himself a thin cigarette and crosses his legs in the black hemisphere.
“Naturally.” Ram’yana rustles through the chamber and his wardrobe, careful not to disturb Li Po. “I can feel her out there someone – waiting for me.”
“Well we’d best be out searching for her, then. Princesses are in short supply and they never wait too long.” Wanderer lights his cigarette and packs another pipt.
Ram’yana collects his oversized canvas backpack and thick cotton sleeping bag, whittling down his possessions to essentials – a list that now includes the silver flute. “One last thing. Whither are we going?”
Wanderer lights a stick of sandalwood at the guttering skull candle before replying. “The
“
“Very different to the
Ram meets his eye as he packs the oracles into the backpack’s pouch. “So thou hast a good reason to make the trip; looking for a princess of thy own, eh?”
“Hardly a princess – don’t let Loren hear you talking like that; she’s a hard-assed feminist. And she’s only one of many reasons for the trip,” Wanderer assures him. “She lives with a lot of free spirits she says we should meet – and after all, yer never know yer luck in the big city. There may even be a princess or two, slumming with the natives or pining for yer in one of the topless towers.”
“Anything’s possible,” Ram’yana agrees.
“That includes coffee, I hope. Mind if I make some? Don’t worry – I won’t wake J.J. or Nathan – I’ll use the pot.” When the Canadian leaves the chamber Ram’yana decides to keep the folded document in his breast pocket. He writes a short note addressed to Li Po and watches psychedelic patterns flow across the black walls while he tries to imagine how he’ll break the news to the Lord Kha-Aan. A hundred trips… or a little less; the corner of the sheet was already missing. How will I make it up to him?
Be not afraid, a voice intones inside his ear. His internal senses alert him to the flavour of the immaterial presence that he felt on the bat cliff. Despite the being’s exhortation to be calm he feels his heart racing behind his sternum. Destiny calls.
A true story.
- R.A.
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Please add your perspective to the collective mind NOW! - Prince Ram'yana