Endurance

A door stand ajar on the glacier. Alone, sentry amid the wind blown ice cold of the world.
The lone survivor of Shackleton's misadventure crawls towards it. Behind him between the ice hills distant mists hold broken masts of The Endurance towering crookedly in grey skies where crackling ice imprisoned the ship many months before.
The last of his desire to live is ebbing away. He is delirious now with thirst and fear and hunger. He followed the shadows of dreams which fell into darkness to this place of fretful rapture, this isolated door on the ice flow.
A door standing alone on a glacier, he squints through frozen eyelashes, ice burnt eyelids, can it be real? Am I alone? he wonders his swollen lips silently mumbling the words while his aching eyes search for an occupant, for a dwelling for the door to belong to, but there is no-one.
He lurches up driven forward always forward a tiny flickering of a desire - to live, to be with someone, to survive - this is alive in his blood if in no other part of his frozen body. 'Knock and the door will be opened' his deliria suggests and knock he does though his feeble pat makes no sound.
"Hello?" The tremor of his voice is a stranger to him and he tries again hopeful he may yet recognise the voice of the man calling.
"Hello?" The door creaks and opens a little more so a golden chink of light falls on the ice at his feet. He reaches for it as though it were a gift but suddenly realises it is only light not real, not as real as the harsh bolt of wind cutting through him.
"Open." He demands of the door and leaning against it breaks a glass panel. He reaches through the open pane into the otherworld of the beyond, inside and his arm disappears. He withdraws his hand quickly, one can not afford to lose something as precious as an arm in such a place.
"Open damn you." He pushes vainly against the door and hears movement within.
"Hello? Can I come in?" He calls desperately.
"Of course." Comes a reply from the other side and spurred into action he turns the wooden handle but the door does not move.'He says yes but he does not mean it' mocks his deliria. He falls weeping to his knees, then tumbles weakly to the ice looking upwards to the sky, tears freezing on his eyes locking him inside the vision of scurrying glacial clouds racing to be somewhere else.
A flower hangs above his head. A gilly flower and the scent of it fills his senses. He reaches his snow caked arm and grasps the flower with grey stiff fingers forcing the petals open before they are ready. The door beside him swings freely open and he is bathed in a golden shaft. A shape stand above him.
"Captain?"

Soul Candle

The Soul Candle burns in a darkened room

It flickers through life’s adventure

Some days the flame holds low,

Slow and orange glow

Like a golden rose a-growing

Othertimes the flame leaps high

Exultant, bright enough to light

Not just this room

Not just this Castle

Of Breath and Being

But the world, the universe and far beyond.

This room of the Soul Candle

Is protected by the Steward of Life, Keeper of Souls

A plated guardian who keeps the flame ablaze

Through illness, despair, the passing of moons

The Steward stands silent

Watching tirelessly through all ages of a life

And at the window of the room

Sings the bird of angel secrets

Who chirps its tales

And tells its truths

To any ear that hears it

The room’s within this Castle

Known to all as Breath and Being

Built into the clouds

Beyond the skies

Dark rooms of amber glowing rise

For here is all humanity

Where Souls flutter ever on

Amid the scent of softened wax

The burn of life is strong

 

Until finally, inevitably

The candle’s all but gone

The wick full spent to ashen dust

The light beings to dim

And the Steward of Life, Keeper of Souls

Sets down its sword

Unbuckles all its armour

Lays down its body upon the earthen floor

Listening to the fading

Of the angel birds sweet call

And then the darkened room

Which no longer holds some light

Slips into that of the Black Beyond

And the room falls out of sight

The Mythology of the Temple of the Butterfly

The Guru delightedly led Marjory into the darkness of the inner sanctum where a sandalwood fire crackled in the centre of a circular room. No other light penetrated and the painted walls flickered in the firelight like the theatre of some strange world. There were devils and gods depicted in a jungle filled with monkeys and birds. With the gentle touch of a child the Guru paraded Marjory about these scenes, explaining the story in his own tongue, though it needed no commentary.
During the following weeks Tristan carefully copied these wall paintings and later published a beautifully illustrated book of the temple called ‘The Peacock Feather – the Mythology of The Temple of the Butterfly'.
Here is the story:
A tail feather of a peacock is plucked by a turban clad blue skinned God who rests above the world on a cloud cushion. His name is Raja. He coats the feather with honey stolen from an angry swarm of bees for he wishes to entice the God of lightning to strike the feather. The power of the lightning will bring the feather to life and foretell the future.
A great storm rises as the God of Lightning seeks out the feather with lashing rain and lightning striking the land - one jagged flash catches the feather held aloft by Raja. The enchanted eye of the feather blinks.
A monkey who was sheltering from the storm in a ancient tree follows Raja to his palace where the feather is placed in a position of honour in a silver vase. While Raja celebrates his new found wisdom the monkey slips into the palace and steals the feather, which cries out to the God alerting him to the kidnap.
His face red with anger, steam issuing from his teeth Raja summons all manner of devils and servants to pursue the monkey. But they are neither clever nor fast enough to follow the little monkey as it swings and climbs high in the canopy of the trees. The further behind the pursuers fall the angrier Raja becomes. He casts each pursuer who fails into a stream and damns them to be turned to water until the last chaser falls as a droplet into what is now a  huge river which washes down through the jungle to a great sea where whales and dolphins thrive.
The monkey takes a large leaf from one of the trees and drops it into the river. Gently lowering itself onto the boat the monkey and the feather float along until nightfall hoping to reach the sea and escape the wrath Raja. However the God bewitches some stones, calling them together so they form a crocodile. As the monkey sleeps using the feather as a blanket the crocodile rises from the water upending the boat. The bedraggled monkey holds the feather up out of the water and as they pass some overhanging branches plunges head down using its tail to pull them to safety.
Both monkey and feather emerge soaked but alive and cower high in the crock of the tree. At the base of the tree Raja instructs men to climb upwards while they are urged on by a crowd of women who sing and dance to encourage them to success. The feather realises without the monkey it might have died in the river or in the jaws of the crocodile and whispers a prayer to the tree, requesting its protection. Monstrous green ants emerge from the bark and with huge nipping pincers attack the climbers, making them fall to earth with bone splitting force.
High above in the sunlit canopy birds crested with wild plumage of multi coloured feathers sing a lullaby of joy to the sun and soon the monkey falls asleep, Its head resting on the feather its tail curled tight around the tree trunk. A chameleon emerges from its disguise on the branch and using its long sticky tongue gently slips the feather from the sleeping monkeys grasp.
This chameleon is working for the lightning God who believes it was his power which brought the feather life and he should enjoy the benefit of its wisdom. Raja now at war with his fellow deity summons a wind which swirls about the chameleon blowing it off the tree and flinging it this way and that until finally its sticky tongue can no longer hold the prize. The feather swirls into the sky where it is swept along in the midst of a huge flock of blue butterflies.
The feather pleads for their help and they carry it along on their journey. But its weight is too great for the delicate butterflies and they fall lower in the sky steadily downwards until the feather dips into the river and is torn from the butterflies grasp.
The monkey and chameleon reappear together to save the feather, they struggle to pull it from the river for it is now swollen and heavy. The crocodile’s eyes and nose emerge from the water. Now desperate the monkey and chameleon call on the butterflies and birds for help and united they gather enough strength to rip the feather out from the river but the force of their efforts send it flying like a sharp sword into the jungle. It plummets into the side of a tree and disappears within.
Raja takes a knife and peels back the bark from the tree and reveals a white skinned woman in Indian garments with huge  peacock feather eyes. She offers herself to him but only if he will protect those that protected her. He agrees declaring that the monkey, chameleon, birds and butterflies are to be honoured as Children of Raja and no man or woman must harm them lest they seek the wrath of Raja and his crocodile of stone. 

(Taken from The Extraordinary Obituary of Marjory Threadgold)

Dragon Tree and Turnkote

Shimmering in the heat distortion of the desert a distant fire burned, appearing to hoover at once above and then upon the horizon.
Turnkote stood beneath the wide shade of the Dragon Tree turning a fir cone in her hand. She set its fat bottom onto the crystal heat of the white sand and span it with a flick of her fingers.
A sand vortex sprang up around the cone and a confusion of voices came into the air. They sang or spoke, called or cried, the sound of those that held the fir cone before, their memories summoned to this place. She whispered "Guide me." and felt a breeze tug at her skirt and heard it pass through the leaves above her. The voices quietened as the cone ceased its spinning leaving a flurry of sand scattered about it. Turnkote took her lizard gizzard watercarrier filling her mouth and then spat a spray of water onto the cone and offcast sand. The sand leapt up to grasp the precious moisture and fell back to the earth where a shape formed, gathering bulk wriggling to be free and then wings emerged as a large bee exploded out from the desert. It flew a circuit around Turnkote's head before flying away purposefully towards the fire on the horizon.
Turnkote settled cross legged leaning on the wide trunk of the Dragon Tree watching for the moment the bee reached the fire. The flames suddenly leapt high and a silhouette was thrust forward, a human shape as though summoned from another presence into this.Turnkote smiled and began to hum as the silhouette walked tirelessly crossing the burning sand towards her. She accompanied her humsong with the percussive sounds of her body, tapping her knees, her cheeks, snapping her fingers, cracking them bringing her whole being alive in the desert.
As the figure approached Turnkote heard upon the breeze her own humsong returned in harmony. She unfolded her legs and walked out to greet her guest, they both extended their arms, echoed each step, embraced continuing to sing but now as one voice.
Turnkote gazed into the face of her older self, the Turnkote she would be many years, decades from this day. Old Turnkote smiled and offered a handful of ash from the beacon fire. She rubbed some into Turnkote's hair and spitting upon the rest made a paste and spread it on Turnkote cheeks and then her own. She laid her ashwhite hand on Turnkote stomach and spoke.

"Through fire, humsong, bee 
and cone, you summon guidance
Call you home

In water, ash and shade
and sand, I bring you answers
Call you home

A new healthy baby
born of you, this baby lives
You are fore told.

Call you home child, call you home.

Kitten and Dagger

The wood was collected by Kitten. She wears her furs close about her face as the attack left her scarred about the eye and limping like a wounded deer. She struggles beneath an armful of wood but struggles most with the treachery of her sister which left her the object of suspicion and anger.
We took her in a raid on the People of the Lightning Tree. Their camp lies to the fall of the sun beyond the fast flowing of the river, on a hill protected within the curl of earth raised defences. A huge oak stands there burnt and twisted by the strike of a stormgod many lives ago.They say the spirit of the tree was evil and that lightning cast out the demon making the land good for man to live.

Their flags, long strips of green dyed cloth which fluttered all along the wooden barricades showed our archers the passage of the wind. The day falling to dark we, the People of the Wandering Wolf,  set many arrows into the air and then with great cries to stir our warrior hearts, lit brush torches and took up the hill in search of slaves and horses.

The fight was poor for they are just hillsmen and we left the huts burning bright in nightmoon light with women and a group of pliant wide bellied fell horses.I took two women and one horse from the spoils.One I called Kitten – for she carried one hidden in her cloak and another who had no name then but now is called Dagger – for she had one hidden in her cloak. After her treachery I asked Kitten,

“What would your sister have been called by your people?” But she shook her head and would not speak of Dagger, making a small hexane sign with her index finger on her tongue to ward off the evil Dagger left behind.

As I stoked the fire and begin the process of heating rock into metal I asked the fur hidden Kitten what work she did for the People of the Lightning Tree.

“Cheese.” She muttered and mimed swinging a goat’s skin to and fro casting milk into curds and whey.

“What do you miss about your people?” I asked as sparks flew up, Kitten thought a while spreading her filthy hands above the flames to gather heat, she gave a small shrug.

“Cheese.” Then she pointed at the crucible which glowed orange blue. “What will you make?” She crouched down to squint closer her broken leg skewed to such an awkward angle it was hard to look upon her. I showed her the mould, a scramble of twisting turns to form a new brooch. It is the depiction of life with no beginning or end just the continuous movement of water through the land of which we part.

“The last one was lost.” I said simply.

“Where?”

“Down by the river.” I need say no more for that is where Dagger struck and stuck her knife into my woman before she fled back across the plains to where the People of the Lightening Tree are upon the hill.

I missed the sight of Smile, my woman, in the corner of my eye moving about the fire going about her work. We shared a bowl for our food and when nothing was to said, sat silently and watched as the others scraped skins or made rope. She would lean her elbow on my thigh and rest her head against my chest but all that is lost to me.  

Now there’s just the two of us me and Kitten, always fretful her staring brown eyes that watch me for anger or instruction. If I turn my back will it come back to haunt me? Is there the same black heart hidden in those furs that beat in Dagger’s chest?

When the crucible was ready I called for her and she set the mold in a clamp of stones whilst I tipped the crucible so the molten gold fell in a constant stream into the mold. the golden river swarmed along the tracks until it erupted and spilt over. I cut my finger and squeezed a droplet of blood into the cooling gold to ensure the brooch is one with the world as alive and seeing as anyone of us.

Then we sat and waited, occasionally I felt the side of the clay until the time was right and we took the mold outside into the light and I carefully tapped away the whitened mold. Kitten looked up as someone came over.

As the new born brooch tumbled into my hand I felt a stab of pain shoot through my side and fell to the ground clutching the brooch tight and my side tighter. A silhouette above me, a dagger and the offer of assistance towards Kitten who silently accepted the grasp and rose untucking her twisted broken leg.

The heat from the brooch is warm but the slip of my blood warmer across my stomach as I weakly raise my head and see, running low between the huts, Kitten and Dagger escaping back across the plains, towards the river and the wood and the hill where The People of the Lightning Tree are. My head slumps back and I go to stand beside Smile amongst the past People of the Wandering Wolf.

She is as beautiful as I remember only more luminous, more alive her in this world of light. I pin the brooch onto her tunic and she smiles. 

Memento

Let me remind you for in memory is hidden both fear and joy. I turned the key not knowing where the door led but aware somehow it was part of my past in the tumbled ruination of this bomb blasted house.
The fluorescent light half hanging to the ceiling swayed and crackled casting flickering shadows down a flight of concrete stairs that led down, down into darkness where the low drip drip of water spoke of imprisonment in chill rooms.
Suddenly memories tumble like water from a spring. The whine of the air raid siren, the exultant panic of rush and race to be safe to get away from the explosions, the cacophony of falling armament, the splintering of glass, the cascading of brick and soil and life into raw terror.
The hanging light suddenly bangs into darkness sending a flurry of sparks down the stairs and I am exhumed from the memory and smell the scent of newly burst blossom from a tree which once stood in my garden but now stands alone, sentinel within the devastation of this broken blasted landscape I once called home.
And I am without weight or presence wandering freely about the scattered walls picking through the remains of what I once called belongings. A willow patterned plate, a photograph, a set of keys and then I come across a leg beneath a flattened table and lifting the wooden plank now find it in the occupation of a coffin lid, for there lies the body of a soul who had no time to make for the key, the door, the light or the steps to the safety of the shelter.
One poor soul who now transcends time and exists momentarily as a corpse. I go a little closer and see the face, my face, my body.
I am memory upon the wind.
I am the scent of blossom from the solitary tree,