The Traveller the Shaman and the King

Chapter 1 The Traveller the Shaman and the King © Séafra O’ Ceallaigh

The road ahead no less than the journey long since begun I ventured to this time and place in order that I might witness at first hand the reasoning of your quest seated now sheltered at the headland in anticipation of the storm. Beyond the mountains to the north that border and thus protect all that is rightful and sacred to the clan a Shaman in darkened robe strode by paused momentarily he looked askance in my direction head bowed in prayer mouthing platitudes and blessed by the sanctity of sin, moved on. I considered his plight to be of consequence to me and that I should further his enquiry regarding the dawn and other matters of concern to the brethren of the abyss.

Beyond the gates of the citadel on the road that led to Damascus a crowd had gathered excited in their charge, a young man, high born of merchant quality and political favour. The agitation of the throng well placed in consideration of this genteel vagrant now succumbed to the passions of sin, servitude, and insoluble pleasures of the flesh begged forgiveness of his act and bade the crowd to welcome his transgressor into his place.  As one the crowd took hold of this new transgressor and did aid the headlong flight of the poor young soul and delivered him summarily unto the Abyss, far below. As darkness settled the city lights grew bright, the taverns filled, the music drifted slowly out upon a wintered air made fresh with fatted calf and grape of vine. I climbed the rock below the headland the tides had turned west and lapped harshly now on foreign shore. In this the rising of the light of the moon I could see his face as though asleep I knew then of course this was not to be; there would be no awakening at the dawn rise. I settled for a moment and raised him up into my arms once more as in his life as now in his untimely death. I told him many tales of sorrow and just concern at his demise but I unlike the Shaman I did not believe in the resurrection that must surely follow the journey far beyond even that of the abyss. I could not aid him then in his quest for salvation and I cannot aid him now. I wiped only the mud from his lips now grown cold without that favoured kiss blue tinged and broken split asunder by his passion in a vain attempt at self-resurrection.

The sea salt tinged his raven hair as sea crab shrimp and mollusc's found sustenance within his brain. Those tears of birth and agonies of death you now encounter in their place that led me to my own salvation to consider once again the mystery of the life I once so proudly gave him. In respect of the diligence of the builder who having constructed the chimneys of old and in provision of their purpose, so ordered his body to be brought to the surface and carried by the acolytes on shoulder high far into the city walls and well beyond the fires in aid of his eternal rest. The tides having turned once more from foreign shores and in addition, and in so doing made good of all that was unworthy to the shattered rocks below; bleached bone, carcass, sinew and rotted flesh now sailed gently away with the tides in ebb. The ferryman took proffered coin spat bit and pocketed his gold. He did not smile for he has no face with which to smile. His import far greater than the souls left in his charge. With hand raised, he bade me farewell and soon 'ere long as the Sun set eternally in western skies he, one by one discharged his cargo of lost souls to be raised anew amongst the tribes and thus reborn into our sacred Isle.

The Shaman returned next morning he sat down beside me eyes closed in silence speaking not one word of his discomfort or the turmoil from within. I spoke at length on the parody of justice. A discourse in right over wrong, heaven and hell, sinners, saints and scholars and the plethora of imaginings that lead only to ones ruin. I asked of him this question. ‘Can you define to me the term and the singular word of, truth? He appeared at first not to understand my questioning it was obvious but then with gathered thoughts he answered: ' My robes signify that I diligently pursue my duties as a Shaman of the tribe. I am ever vigilant against the sins of human kind. I punish those that transgress with sobriety and caring in order to save their soul for immortality. I punish only wrongdoers the innocent have nothing to fear from the brethren of the abyss. I dispatch their souls quickly with understanding passion and in truth.' I considered his words for some time before offering my reply.

However, I digress; forgive me you were on the point of telling me of your sin. I do not understand the purpose that lay beyond the crucifixion but I do accept the reasoning of this time honoured ritual. You supposed and of this, much is the truth of those around when they assured you at the time of your demise and alienation from the truth. That I would, give you time and solace to heal then forgive their deceit. Do you still suppose there was need of your destruction to better facilitate and further accommodate thereby educate those that would stray far from the chosen path of their own enlightenment. I look now to the Sun and express all that is hatred, all that is anger, all that is truth. We sat both you and I, at the feet of Plato do you recall? We spoke then as now; we discussed long into the night the ways of servitude and democracy the twin evils of State, the schematic on the fall of Rome. The barbarian paused then forced on to his salvation. His eye fell upon your body as though this final act of contrition would resolve his plight. You smiled in eager anticipation of this favour that would rest upon arid ground. The artisan then with diligence took control and bade welcome to his charge. Hands bound the proud barbarian took his rightful place at the scaffold base. He held loosely outstretched arms and considered his pious fate. Later that day on our journey home, you bade the carriage to halt awhile to consider the barbarian once more. His face though tortured by asphyxiation and laboured breath, shed tears of joy at your return. As darkness fell, you turned from him, as my arms enfolded in response to your caress. No more, would I stand in judgement of the cuckold nor his dreams. I led you from that place of retribution in the sure and certain knowledge of our own salvation. Later on, that night would prove the advent of your sin. As dawn broke amid a gladdened heart, I rose from your side and faced north once more to walk tall amongst the tribes.

I write in tongues to better illustrate my reasoning. Take for example why you feel my words are not worth their notation on parchment. I know you cannot, therefore I will enlighten you in the ways of the word. In the beginning was the word and the word was Truth. In truth, with the syllables so ordered, the consonants arranged and the vowels inserted correctly in their predefined spaces. An image will appear in your subconscious. It will either control a synapse that induces calm or on the other hand induces discomfort. If I say, you are corrupt in your thinking and the production of your thought. You will feel discomfort, protest your innocence, and become the victim of misunderstanding by others. If on the other hand, I appease your virtue and acquiesce to your given demands. I will place upon your shoulders the burden of your own serenity and you will succumb to the abyss. There is no hope of the resurrection without first placing your trust in the abyss. You will attempt to withdraw as always in fear of the imagery that now resides inside your brain. You having once heard my words will be forever damned. You will not raise the same but differ without knowledge of that fact from all other mortals that traverse the planet at the start of day. How is it you are so certain of the power of your words, you now demand of me? These are not my words you will hear me say in reply. They are simply words. Your ear and brain interrogates the external power of the word before allowing conquest. If in the case of my written word, you may wish to understand their meaning, if any. Then I suggest you begin the process of articulating your own emotion to overcome all prior conditioning and bring forth your own imaginings, on this world still sleeping. However, wait just one moment before you interject. If what I say is spoke in truth then surely it must follow that the subject of my words is truth. I myself am not convinced at the wisdom of your way of reasoning at least not at these early stages of our continuing discourse. Regardless, we must venture on in our newfound alliance. In search of answers that lay only in truth; truth then as I suppose it to be, worth more in the finding, than when found.  Alternatively, is truth no more in consequence of the journey we aspire to undertake?  I await your response.

The Shaman replied. ‘As the Sun must surely rise in the East it may be assumed that it; the Sun, should settle more easily below Western skies at day’s end. Is the Citadel within the city parameters not testament to this one truth? Each break of day the light falls upon the righteous in pious prostration before the holy one above and all those administering angels of the lord attest to this one truth. I and all my brethren are earthly testament in that we exist only to exercise the will of God upon the errant flock. There is but one truth and it follows from my devotions that I expose the antitheses of my considered soul. I follow the path of exactness laid down and etched in rock and I take comfort in the journey as did the master before me on the descent from the summit, so long ago. This I ascribe in truth and lay most firmly but with compassion at the foot of sin. I must subjugate self in order to fulfil with consequence the matters that have confounded human kind since the dawn of time. There is the substance of evolution to consider in all this that we regard as being of human life. The child must benefit in collaboration of the birch twig in chastisement of a soul in one so young that doth embrace then profess to err in the ways of human behaviour. It follows through example of the sin of the father that it should rightly be placed on the shoulders of those yet unborn to understand then reap the eternal reward of the consequence of sin. We are born of sin if we attest in life only to that premise then life is therefore lived in celebration of sin and we succumb in the last moments to eternity safe and secure in the knowledge of sin. The forces of darkness will then fail heavily the power of the Citadels throughout my world and the barbarian shall once again triumph at the gates of hell. You who are a traveller in time should know of this. How many of your worlds once surveyed have drawn you to this conclusion? You have the privilege of transition if one planet wears heavily on your cloth, you withdraw. You fall into my realm and decide with god given alacrity to condemn all that is correct and favoured in my world. I must therefore eradicate not only the faction of sin but also the acolytes of time and their propensity toward the forgiveness of sin. Such a notion indeed is far from my understanding! I must attend now to my devotions and bid you good day. May god, look kindly upon your face and guide you to the true path of righteousness at the gates of the Citadel. Fare thee well, traveller'.

The Shaman was correct, I have seen many worlds and many truths, real and those supposed. I search not for many truths. My journeys concern but one identification of truth. Truth in essence cannot be happened upon by chance. Truth is the journey in itself and the meaning of which becomes clearer as each footprint marks the passage of the soul, forever lost in time and space amongst the rocks and crimson sands of this once great universal nation. I favoured his world more so than most others I had travelled. The Sunsets like no other; even that of earth, I had witnessed before or since, a subtle indigo settling to give rise to the twin moons of Phobos and Deimos. They no more than captured asteroids but rightly named by the brethren, Phobos meaning fear and Deimos, terrified in flight. This cold desert world of ice, water, sand and rock scarred by ancient flood and volcanic activity would settle more easily the notion of the brethren in the minds of their charges, now awaiting the word in eager anticipation of The Shaman and his return.

The storm clouds long since gathered in the far distant, northern skies. The trees moved slowly at first gaining momentum safe in the knowledge of the resurrection yet to come. It mattered not from whence I journeyed only those with insight into the matter duly noted the circumstance of the return. As I came upon the inland sea I paused for a moment and took a drink from the icy waters underfoot and saw in the reflection a face now so unfamiliar. I had come to regard this apparition as no more than the consequence of time. I looked out across the Lough, toward the village that lay beyond the next brow and struggled to comprehend the ravages etched deep in this human facade. I assumed little would be known of my imminent return. It had been many years since the war’s end. I had sent no word of my survival and found no reason other than to return having found no other place to go. The homecoming would prove less joyous than the departure. We were young and foolish then and enjoyed the prospect of our destruction far sweeter than the laughter of the young girls escorting the battalion along the village way. It was then that I first saw those brown eyes that would stay with me throughout the intervening years and guide me albeit unknowingly to this present place and time once more. Laughter followed as she ran. Wild flowers braided throughout her dark flowing hair. She wore a long cotton dress made transparent by the light and heat of the day. I was never to know her name. The comrades at the front could not recall ever seeing her like and would suspect me of dreaming or the telling of tall stories as I insisted on her presence on the day of our departure. The rain fell as I approached the village square little of nothing and yet everything had changed. In the centre a memorial to the fallen had been erected in place of the antiquarian water pump. I read the words so inscribed and felt comfort to read of my inclusion with those long dead comrades.

‘In memory to the fallen Today a world turned crimson. No longer would the storm clouds gather from the north. In respect to those that would follow, I turned my face toward the sun. The journey had no end only the beginning. I was witness to the first as he fell headlong into the mud. Now settled and carved into stone, As though the campaign should in some way be remembered? This was not the way of it, said a comrade. This was not the revolution. This was not the promise. This was not eternity. This was not heaven nor was this hell. I journeyed long that day. I passed silently by the settlement and saw you lay by the stream. I wondered then of your loneliness. 'Ere long I stood to meet the Sunrise.’

The epitaph described the lie with which the living find comfort in the loss of lives wasted by a generation of truth seekers. Youth abandoned in its finest moment thinking of home and the life yet to come. Holding firm to a mother’s breast suckled only by dread and the advent of death. I turned my head and saw a figure watching at the windowpane of the inn. I walked toward the open door and entered the darkened room. I crossed the floor and the young boy behind the counter passed a glass of ale toward me without comment and retired to the living quarters behind. The figure remained at the window tracing a finger on the moisture causing rivulets to fall then turned abruptly and left the inn. I threw some coins onto the counter the drink remained untouched and left the confines of the tavern. Outside the rain still fell I joined the village way now sodden turned to mud as I pursued my journeys end. About a mile distant was the cottage where I had been born. It appeared to be in a habitable condition as I approached but proved a sad disappointment, as I came closer. The thatched roof had almost ruined but the walls were strong and little of the rain had penetrated the remaining thatch so I settled on lighting a fire to bring some warmth to the occasion of my homecoming.

The village could hardly be described any longer, as a village. In my years of absence it had matured into a vibrant and industrial township, the grave yard proved this to be fact by its enlargement and the containment of many an errant soul known personally to me in those early years. The new town boundary extended far beyond the burial ground, chapel, schoolhouse, tavern and the handful of cottages of my youth. Many institutions now catered for the influx of children following the end of hostilities. Few parents had survived the warring factions and their forcible inclusion in the day to day practices of waging war on themselves and each other. International commerce and free trade now flourished, where once the guardians of truth controlled then blackguarded the source and the means of production. The land procured from the people and collectively farmed then ruined without rotation until the famine times and ultimately the wars return.

I observed from my cottage window a small boy half bent peering through the railings toward the burial ground. A man the obvious digger of graves stood leaning on a spade. His eyes toward and his thoughts were upon the evening celebrations in the village below not at the task at hand. He would know of everyone in the village, everyone would know of him. The street-lighting then switched itself on. The houses illuminated one by one, as their owners having abandoned factory and office alike returned once more to the sanctuary of their homes. The gravedigger looked up and observed the storm clouds gathering in the north. He would feel comfort at their presence. A chill wind would then dance amongst the gravestones. His eyes would then fall slightly into the abyss. The gravedigger would then check his craftsmanship beckon toward the young boy he could no longer see in the half light and make his way toward the gate and to the cottage beyond. I remembered this man and this boy from long ago.

'It seems to me the Shaman fails in his argument simply because of his attempt to put order onto chaos. There is natural ebb and flow to all things in existence be they humanly constructed or that which emanates from the so-called heavens above or again made natural by design through chemical interaction no more, no less. There are those that say we construct our own realities in the vain attempt to resolve the inner conflict between that which is and that which is, not. I couldn’t care less. Whatever strategy we subscribe to, in an attempt at personal resolve, it is little more than arrogance. We give ourselves excuses all the time for our mistakes. We assume connectivity with that which is past and that which is yet to come. As though somehow this will in itself not justify our excuse as a species that simply does not care either of itself or of any other put forward in the slaughter house of human existence. The Shaman was described a teacher in the sermon. But what did he have that was worth the learning. Where did his ideas emanate from, the heavens above or do they transcend from Hades, below. Was the fable etched in stone then laid to rest at the gates of the citadel? Was he, struck blind in order to see the road that leads to Damascus. Was he as I suppose him to be begrudged by those he laboured to inform? What is the substance of his argument that no one listened to his retrospective philosophy. Was he himself abandoned in the schoolyard or should we suppose as did his tutelage serve only to betray his own adornment as he, journeyed inexorably once more into the abyss. I am trying to understand were the educators happen upon their god like instruction that informs then denies basic truths then fails at absolution. Life being an algorithm a mathematical statement of what surely must follow unto death and then the process begins all over again. We are born we exist we die our chemical composition implodes our energy dissipates and settles harmoniously with the Sun.

If life is as The Shaman subscribes it to be then I must deny the philosophy of the resurrection. The chimneys may lay abandoned now only the diligence of the builder points the journey that lies between the gates of heaven and of hell. We deny the philosophy of our own destruction with palms outstretched. We plead not as was supposed at the feet of Socrates but accept with joyous anticipation the demise of those yet unborn. There was time in human history when the spoken word was death. The educators gave us words to read and symbols to ascribe they knew nothing of their import then but then why did we not cry out in anguish, as those millions passed us by? You may feel my words are best left unsaid my thoughts retained within; my brain is filled with energy, as I stand outside that shelter of that chaos from within. Your scaffold built on hallowed ground denies my truth and loss but the hordes surround the deserts now and your time is almost lost. I believed the words my teacher spoke, as he lay upon the ground and asked me to caress his soul and touch him with my hand. That fateful day so long ago reminds me now of you, as you, narrate philosophies of destruction and of truth.’

I turned away from the graveyard and headed towards the eastern glow of the settled Sun, a blue haze of almost indescribable beauty drifted aimlessly along the wharf of the inland sea. Far to the North lay the golden spires of the Citadel shrouded in the prayer of the faithful and the illusion of Damascus and the road there to. Forgive me. We were speaking of truth and its consequence. I succumbed to the abyss for a moment and dreamt of far off spaces. There have been so many worlds. I grow weary of their insight and their indifference. Their voices reach far beyond the stars and tear holes in the fabric of the universe it is my task to repair these holes; I am the last of the traveller clan.

‘Shaman, what of this traveller did the traveller speak of truth, did the traveller speak in anger did the traveller speak of revenge, did the traveller speak of me your King?’

‘The traveller spoke of truth he spoke not with anger and seeks no revenge. The traveller spoke of other matters not concerning to the state only fundamental matters of the brethren clan that cause for my concern.’

‘How can this traveller be of concern not to state but yet to church brethren or no? Am I not seated at the head of both tables, Shaman?’

‘Indeed you’re Holiness.  It was not my intention to alarm you but to bring order over chaos in all matters pertaining to church, state and your Majesty.’

‘If I were to say to you Shaman, your very life had depended on the quality of the answer you so eloquently described. Would the answer have been so erudite then, I wonder? Would you unlike the traveller speak of revenge, tongue lash with anger and speak not of the truth. Of course, you would not! You would deny the truth just as the traveller in your discourse with him today. Things were spoken of that neither you nor I yet comprehend. We arise you and I at the four corners observing quietly; the edges of the known world. I point then to the mountains far beyond the failing light. You observe the winter snows lay frozen then heaped large upon this hallowed ground, do you not? A shroud to mark the passage of your time and putrefied still body compressed by gravity and liquidised with lime. Much concern was shown, at the leaving but little in the way of platitudes now allows his lone return. The written word he speaks particularly those of anguish, resurrection, death and sin are troublesome to me. I believe him not. I weary of this conversation. I am in need of contemplation; attend to your devotions Shaman, we will verbalize no more.’ The Shaman withdrew and the King sat heavily upon his throne, thus mused.

‘In what name should I be a feared of this so called traveller of time if as the notion is well subscribed this particular traveller is indeed the last of those that have gone before him into the abyss. Then it follows that on his entering that abyss I should have nothing that I should continue then to fear. If on the other hand the awakening of his soul beyond the abyss puts in jeopardy all that I hold true and dear to me . Then I fight a cause just though it may be but one already suffering in defeat. I should therefore retain my privilege of death over life and do nothing to upset the delicate balance that exists only at the threshold of eternity. This is my judgement and consideration for all that stoops before me in the hope and the certainty of the resurrection, yet to pass. But wait! I fail to see the reasoning of the traveller’s quest. Why this planet, why my world, why this Kingdom. What did the traveller clan seek beyond as they professed themselves collectively to be simply held in ignorance to engineer all the fabric of the Universe and with machinations derive harmony in truth and in life protect only the sanctity of death and its eternal experience? I must seek collaboration then upon his downfall. And what better partisan to his crimes than the traveller himself.’

‘I grew weary only of the journey and thought to rest before continuance on the road ahead. I stopped and gained succour from the inland sea. I thought only of the spires of this great township and the Citadels, therein. What better place to end my journey and the travels of a people long since engulfed by the twinned evils of famine and disease. Our worlds may collide and contest all that is held in truth. But I seek out not that is to be considered in truth merely the seekers of that truth to better understand the argument for the cessation of hostilities and an enduring peace. I did not choose your world. You as in other worlds happened upon me. I took your hand on this road because it is my road. I stand outside your realm and obverse the candle lit within. I do not feast at the table with fatted calf and grape of vine. And in so doing wrongly led my people from the famine time and inherent disease delivered them unto the abyss. The rent in the cloth grows large. Its containment is beyond my skill and will invert our worlds lest they collide and signal each other to afford a differing path to continued survival. I speak not in warning but in consequence of our chosen path. The Universe is at the point of its return from whence it came there is nothing you or me can do to assuage this circumstance of life. We shall put aside our indifference's and unite in the solemn process of denial in all in existence and the abyss from which all life exudes. The hour grows near the Sun already in expansion will digest the moons and all the stars in the firmament will surrender to their fate. The abyss re-awakened with cries of joyous retribution shall reach out and embrace all that seek the truth of this matter in time. The question of church and state will be no more. Idle Kings and those that are not, alike, shall fall headlong into the abyss with arms outstretched in pious recognition of the sin of truth.’

The Sun set blue haze upon the evening waters of the inland sea. Silence held a moment before the rise of the twin moons of Phobos and Deimos. The sailboats at their moorings lay at rest between the sandbank and the outcrop to the east of the waterfront. A lone Shaman coiled hemp and steel to his trawling net. A woman gutted fish and threw the inner workings to the swooping gulls, this amused the Shaman and the woman both. As I turned away I caught sound of youthful laughter and breathe found mute abrupt below deck. Trade now flourished in this abandoned world. The street vendors plied their wares with accustomed ease exotic spice and truthful drug. Laces and ribbon cloth. Precious stone embossed in silver. Hair braided and tied off with gold. Grape and narcotic purveyed with rich intent to enliven the mind and refresh the soul. Vendors of the flesh and givers of sin fail the shadows of the citadel wall and succumb to its destruction. No heed of trumpet blast and trampled feet. The walls remain upstanding at the demise of the word. I was saddened to think all this enterprise should come to nought within the age that now surely has come to pass. I continued on beyond the purveyors of fish and bone. I absorbed the scent of sandalwood funeral pyres adrift upon the chill evening air. A fragrance divorced in humour from the arid dust storms of daylight. Thus renewed, my resolve and vigour would take me from this place beyond the confines of the city and to my home in the mountains of the north.

Rain fell lightly on the thatch as I approached the clearing. My leather boots had sodden much earlier in the day giving rise to soreness afoot. I limped the last three quarter mile and thankfully sat down at last before a raging hearth. ‘I thank thee little mother for your assistance in these my domestic matters. You may return no more to this place of abode. You are free to go wherever your will might take you on the morrow.’ The little mother replied, ‘I have nowhere that I would wish to be other than where I am now stood. Am I true, Traveller, in my supposition that you have come to destroy all that we hold dear upon us?’ The Traveller continued, ’in truth I am incapable of destruction I am a Traveller resolved of time and consequence and issue forth only supposition in testament of the abyss. I come to warn of its betrayal and give such guidance as is requested to alleviate the fall into the abyss of your own choosing.’ Alarmed she replied, ‘You do the mysteries of the Shaman, how can this be so, if you were to be discovered. I dwell not upon this matter of consequence and bid you goodnight and retire to my quarter.’

The Traveller reassured the woman, ‘Be not thou in haste little mother. I bring salvation and the prospect of damnation to your eternal soul. And at the moment of your surrender to me you flee as though the Devil himself rises from Hades and is set about your person, as fickle, as any of your errant lovers.’ She replied, ‘This much is said in truth that I know not the meanings of this diatribe in romance. But I feel that your words are bound to cause some comfort on this chill; yet still autumn, night. Traveller you easily distract. Come away from the window and lay yourself down beside me. The morning shall arrive and you will be made cuckold by the dawn. I am tired I sleep uneasy since the wars began. I remembered you from my youth. It was summer; the village way bedecked with flowers, the war so fresh and filled with promise and is when I saw you for the first time. I was but a young girl then, full of hope and desire, passion and feelings. But you were gone off to battle, you knew not even of my existence. I would tell my girlfriends of your beauty that day and but they would suspect me of dreaming or the telling of tall stories; as I insisted on your presence on that day of departure to the front.’

The Traveller implied, ‘There is falsehood in your words that memory is borne of my memory. It can only be in truth from the words uttered by a Traveller in time and space and I myself uphold the burden of the remaining Traveller; that is I, good woman.’  She replied,’ you are not alone, a Traveller will isolate and become fragmented from the abyss when as happened to you at the settlement; a cannon shell exploded and caused you injury that you now constantly deny in testament to the journey. Many of us succumbed in famine times but equally so have a few survived. In order that we may enjoin our powers and halt the decline in avoidance of that which is almost upon us? Indeed the reversal is here the expansion is at the gates of the Citadel the fabric stretched beyond all endurance and set to burst inward. But only we know the power of the abyss and its secret must be kept. Otherwise all will be lost unto dust and blow acrid through time and space abandoned by all and the resurrection of none. It is not for us to counsel only to mend that which remains unbroken; this I attest in truth to be the word of the Traveller.’

The traveller, perceived the truth in her speech, ‘I cannot argue your word little mother on the morrow we should seek out the Shaman I spoke with today. But for now I am tired and in contention I know now I shall never know of truth. I sleep no more than four hours thinking or dreaming ever watchful in sleep. I can though on occasion discontinue the nightmare reverie at will. I can choose such dreams, as I may and deny those that I wish. At first light I trip the switch on awakening. The machine responds and dreams are then made tangible by their excess. I turn my head from your window, as now and wonder of the past. I fear only the future I have knowledge of what mendacity is ahead upon this ancient trail. The past rests lightly on my Soul. It is the past that keeps me safe upon the road. The leaving will be harder this one time knowing now that I will never know of you. Nor ever know the warmth of your caress. Know your breath in shallow depth. Nor see with eyes that greet your fast. Far west of here far beyond these borders of my world is a dwelling house rumoured of enchantment. A witch resides within a sorceress of great power long in contention with that of the Brethren. We will journey soon as winter falls to make this alliance safe atop on mountain high.’

Muirgheal has meaning of brightness of the seas. She stands a woman of high birth and heritage proud Warrior Clan imbued with Powers of enchantment, music and of mysticism and also forever remains in contention with the Brethren Clan or so it is written. A portrait hung long ago inside An Halla Mhór. Legend has writ An Cáislean Mhór besieged then consumed with fire all that were living and dead within its once proud walls. Lay in ruin was the portrait the cause of our contention a magical talisman that aided flight and magic deed to the incumbent, within. Now, restored due only to the diligence of the artist and so ordered by the Brethren then hung in gold containment placed at station upon the Citadel wall. An Cáislean Mhór held prisoner by discontent and defended to the last by the warrior clan within. Each soldier defended their Queen; as no other. A world turned crimson flecked with orange and of flesh turned golden brown would herald naught but sacrifice and the dawning of the day. Near battle end such survivors that remained were summarily dispatched by Brethren and Priest, as was their writ, on such occasion, as war. I fell upon the injured with sword and harness. The youngest of the tribe now eased by famine held not strength enough to fear the abyss and silent, as the lamb, succumbed more easily to their fate.

The carts moved in unison toward cliffs edge. The bodies then flung headlong into the abyss without murmur or obvious discontent. The tides returned. The boatman safely harboured below hand outstretched in salutation of a nights work complete. At sunrise I walked amongst the rocks and crimson seas then lapping gently on foreign shore. At the headland a body remained unblessed and in isolation of the word. I knelt beside the body faced down naked upon this holy ground. I spoke the word and placed hand upon the still yet unborn child of destiny. My hands still warmed by blood and steel. Turned the body to my sight in anguish recognized the cold blue lips that spoke of hell and retribution. I took the harness and placed it gently around her sweet white neck.

‘My name is Muirgheal Queen of An Cáislean Mhór. Be not in haste of your hidden task. I fear not the abyss. I welcome it. My warriors still have need of me. I hurry away a willing pilgrim of my own desire. Take me and have done with it. Then dispatch my body bright as the sea of which I was ordained and damn you all to hell.’ I answered her concluding question of her life. ‘The portrait is safe the brethren have it firmly in containment, as we delay in this our final discourse.’ I took hold of the harness and gazed once more upon her golden skin. The flaming hair now brushed aside saw reddened lips and conjured thoughts of Damascus life, love and liberty of the chosen few. My duties thus performed I should return the passage to the borders of my own world safe in the promise of the resurrection yet to pass. I then placed my cloak well wrapped upon her. Held aloft the lightened frame and walked once more upon the trail that points the road beyond Damascus. ‘Your warriors have little need of you now daughter of the sea’, I murmured. She breathed abruptly then more gently in shallow depth, as the Sun set firmly over our direction home.

The Sun rose and the Citadel genuflected filled with eternal light that warmed then beheld the mysticism of the dawn. Faint blue shadows embossed the whitened robes of the assembled Shaman. Their mantra rose in cadence to the subtle roar of the collective acolytes. One Shaman stood alone and to the side of the central altar. ‘In the beginning was the word and the word was the schematic. All shall praise in virtue of the Soul world, the insanity, the cruelty and the pain. In this place of chronicle you will find fragments of wisdom and the old speak that have survived the journey beyond the space time continuum. These the fragment of old, the time Traveller carried with Alistriona, clan protector; as the people journeyed forth beyond the fall of the nations to the forces of the darkness. The clan battles of the legend of time since past; long before even the notion of the destruction that lay ahead in the future time, speak of the Soul world bereft of consequence. The nation set against the nation, the people set against the people, the slavery, the death, the pestilence and the destruction of all the species of the Soul world in alliance with the humanoid. The bunker chronicle is all that remain of the fragment of the light and the suggestion. The pure, the innocence, the source of all the eternal, the convention of the naming, information so gathered. The dissemination and the facilitation, electronically reassembled, the enhancement and now the prophesied. Only in resolve the teaching that now told is processed in the real time. This the considered view of the humanoid life form before the clan war of the Soul world. Detail from the Fundamental schematic: long shall rule the World rekindled taken from the bunker chronicles, the chapter of the dark one verse 6, Amen’

‘I congratulate you on your erudite translation, first Shaman. The old speak is never simple to decipher. I have known even Kings to fail in the interpretation you do well brother in the ways of the word. My name is Alistriona. There was a time when my namesake walked the valley below and defended the chronicle in time of conflict. She alone would protect the good book held on high by the traveller clan in midst of battle.’

‘I am familiar with the role but unfortunately see not the person you so describe before me, little mother. An amusing tale none the less for it is surely no more than a childhood fancy that you now, ascribe to?’

‘In truth Shaman I attest no more to fantasy, as you would proscribe indoctrination into the Brethren clan. My Mother taught me so and it has been the way of it, since.’

© Séafra O’ Ceallaigh extract early working draft 2009