by Jann Burner
Harry turned away from the past (like an extraneous thought) and proceeded anxiously down the twisting overgrown path that constituted the entryway into the jungle. At once, the air began to feel heavy and as he descended deeper into the afternoon light, the sun was gradually devoured and swallowed by the ever-increasing lushness of the surrounding vegetation. This was in turn replaced by a bluer hue, generated in some way by the jungle itself. The very idea seemed to embrace him and it was dense, for his quest had finally led him to the jungle of Imagination where the seed of paradise is sown.
He moved on through thought and process, observing the miracle of pure visual phenomena in its myriad aspects, for in the jungle, the visionary becomes benevolently blind to all but the seedling paradise that is carried within, and nurtured through the silvered stalk of spine that connects the beast and the dreamer.
Continuing on through the lush humid greenery, he heard the sound of a stream and he approached the sound, for in his mind all streams led to rivers and all rivers led, eventually, to the sea. On his way toward the stream, Harry passed immense butterflies that undoubtedly lived forever and stained the air through which they passed with the lingering color of their being. Lightening bugs flashed every imaginable color, even during the blue neon brightness of the jungle day. As he pushed forward, he was seized by the unnaturally seductive aroma of such indescribable impact that it caused his nostrils to flair and his pulse to race. He quickly increased his stride, advancing aggressively through the restricting jungle of soft possibility and the tall stands of vibrant potential, only stopping from time to time to push aside one of the many creeper vines of tangled thought that threatened to strangle his mind with echoes of eternity.
What, he tried to imagine, could be the source of such an incredibly beautiful odor? And then he began to hear music, for he was in the jungle where crickets chirped their rhythms in different tones, while flocks of song birds circled high in the sky. It was luminous! Close by, large bullfrogs and swamp geese trumpeted their approval. In the clearing, a black flamingo danced proudly with a white swan, while rainbow-hued peacocks strutted their stuff through the surrounding forest.
"Is this paradise?" Harry wondered. As if in answer to his question, a grey wolf, the size of a saber-toothed tiger, roared from the dense undergrowth and tore into the white swan, ripping open its throat and dragging it back into the bush. As far as the black flamingo was concerned, nothing had happened--it continued to dance.
Instinctively, Harry crouched low, hugging the ground, attempting to make himself invisible. The air vibrated with the sound of flies come to share the grey wolf's feast. He felt many eyes upon him but finally, sensing he was in no danger, Harry stood and continued downhill toward the sound of the stream. And then he saw it, a purple, infrared stream running right through an imposing forest of immense incense trees. As he drew closer, his feet sank into the accumulated ash which dropped from the smoldering trees. Passing a stand of stout, red bamboo, he selected a strong dead tube to use as support and leisurely strode to the very edge of the stream.
The water, if indeed it was water, shimmered and pulsated. It seemed to refract light. From certain angles, it gave the appearance of a prism, with lines irradiant like spider webbing. Harry's eyes traced the course of the purple fluid and, in the far distance, high on a hill, he observed a large white rock formation from which the stream seemed to originate. As his eye traced the stream's path in the other direction, he saw still, green pools of varying diameters, bordering the stream as it ran into the dense jungle overgrowth.
Kneeling by the side of the stream, Harry passed his hand over its surface. The liquid trembled and slid between the vibrations of his passing hand. Its radiance had him entranced. Carefully, he lowered his left hand into the liquid and smelled it, and then, raising it to his lips, he touched it with his tongue. Much to his surprise, he discovered that it tasted and smelled exactly as he imagined it would.
Flush from inhaling the vapors of discovery, Harry's attention nimbly leaped across the small purple stream and seized upon the placid concept of a green stagnant pool situated near by. Standing upright, he cast his attention like a fisherman, so that he might better appreciate the character of this particular pool.
With his attention thus split--half on one side of the purple stream and half trolling across the surface of the stagnant pool--he found himself suddenly vulnerable, seduced and trapped like a hare in an open field. The initial realization was of an aural nature, a very low tone, produced perhaps by the smooth, slow stride of an exceptionally long snake or maybe it was merely the surging tone of a distant bridge. In any case, it was extremely base in origin and abruptly alerted the tiny fibers of Harry's inner ear. Something was wrong. And then, as he helplessly watched, a tiny shadow touched the smooth green pool at its very center. It was a mere pinprick of black and in another place in time, it might have been conceived of as a pinprick in the surface of a small pillow of silken green perhaps and immediately dispatched to some neural outback of residual memory as an event of little or no significance. But in the dense inner ring of youth's imaginings, the soil was fecund and anxious for sudden change.
In less time than it takes to tell, the tiny spot of shadow abruptly spread like an unchecked virus towards the outer edge of a cell and the initial low tone began to rise in volume, as it slid up through the octaves resembling a steam locomotive about to explode.
Harry stood, a defendant in the dock, forced to passively witness a goodly portion of his attention about to be snatched away by an awesome bird of prey which apparently fed on stray conscious energy, as a hawk might feed on stray rodents. Stunned, indeed hypnotized by the immense implication of the idea, Harry felt like a young deer frozen in mid-stride beneath the powerful glare of an on-rushing automobile's headlights.
Hovering at point-balance, he thus savored the heady aroma of inevitability and watched as the giant predator descended. Its massive, fifteen foot, grey leather-like wings curled into its body like the leading edge of a tidal wave about to break upon the innocence of a kitten. Like the last closing millisecond of eternity, the sleek, grey winged beast closed with the surface of the small, green pond, its awesome claws extended, its shriek of intent now focused far beyond the realm of man. Gathering energy thus, the smoking body of the Phoenix shattered the still surface of the pond, and as it did, a goodly portion of youth's vision burst into flame. A small but relevant slice of Harry's conscious attention, once divided, was gone...forever.
Harry's body stood limply erect, his jaw slack. His once rather simple, well organized mind felt like it was running down his leg and gathering in a murky puddle at his feet. Suddenly his slack-jawed body snapped to attention like a fisherman's long neglected line hit by a large shark--and his inner eye observed the boiling pool of flame abruptly throw up the head of the bird. But now the once grey leather-like head of the large predator was gold. He blinked in disbelief and the image of the large bird's golden head retreated back into the broiling flame. Again-this time with the scream of a noontime factory whistle-the creature's head appeared, twisting and turning repeatedly trying to extricate itself from the flame. Harry watched in shock, his extraneous thoughts masked by the ultrasound of the beast's anguished longing to be free. Harry was left with but two alternatives; to believe or to disbelieve, to trust or to doubt.
As a sliver of doubt began to taint the innate purity of his belief, he witnessed the creature's strident effort collapse in an awesome shower of sparks! With his attention thus riveted, he watched in helpless astonishment as once again the thrashing beast began to emerge from the fiery pool. This time, though, as he observed the bird's golden head appear above the tops of the flame, the creature's intense effort bypassed his mind and touched his heart--thus the connection was made and immediately the longing for rebirth became as important to Harry as to the Phoenix! Harry now fervently lent his energy along with his attention, for the duality in his mind was at once unifie
d and clarified by the passion of his heart. Soon, as his hope merged with the bird's desire, the entire project began to rise in the broiling flame, like an idea who's time has come. The bird's once steel grey wings now flashed gold in the neon blue of the imagination, giving off a crisp, electric brittle smell like lightning. As the Phoenix finally stretched its golden wings clear of the fire, the implication of the metamorphosis stirred in Harry's mind, and caused him to vacillate and become self-conscious once again. At that exact moment, one of the creature's wings suddenly dipped and then crumbled, causing the body to fold in descent. As the golden wing reentered the flame, Harry's mind was purged and unified as, this time he screamed out from the pain and effort and intense concentration required for creation. Yet, as the pain moved through his mind to his heart, it was instantly transformed into humility and awe, and at that exact moment he witnessed the Phoenix finally and resolutely take wing on its initial flight from the fiery pool of its own realization.
Once clear of its nest of flame, the massive bird stretched its golden wings beneath the sun, and rolling over slightly, turned a large dark eye toward Harry standing by the small infrared stream far below. As he stared up at the incredible product of the Imagination, the golden bird slowly opened its beak and shattered all remaining doubt and objectivity with a shriek so awesome that it caused Harry's knees to buckle and he collapsed. High overhead the golden bird circled, its dark, black eyes receding in the distance like twin black holes in deep space.
Harry remained where he lay, aware that he might, at any instant, be terminally distracted by the vanity of his indulgence. Yet he was fascinated by the actions of the long, slow thought, curling around in his mind painting pictures of a golden bird gracefully soaring through the neon blue. High above, the bird's cry filtered down to him as the distant trill of a peasant's wooden flute.
Harry gripped his pole of red bamboo for support and raised myself to my feet. He looked around as if for the first time. The surface of the green pool was again placid. He looked away. After a moment, he lifted my eyes and sure enough, there, high above in the distant beyond was the golden speck. Again he heard the soft trill of a wooden flute. He looked down at his staff.
"From this stick", he thought, "I shall create my instrument, a musical instrument, a navigational aide for future use."
And a splendid instrument it was, too, forged in the dense, fertile humus of pure imagination and tuned and tempered over the flame of eternal youth. It seemed an essentially intuitive process undertaken in the midst of a dream, within a dream. How it was done and to whom should go the final credit for craftsmanship is irrelevant. The emergent fact, and final realization, was a tubular section of red bamboo, hollowed and holed so as to produce with, but the merest wisp of human breath, a seemingly infinite variety of harmonic tones.
And so Harry walked from beside the pool, strengthened and renewed, for he knew in his center that as he blew into the flute and gave that instrument its life and vitality, so the Dreamer of All That Is blew its intent through the fleshy fabric that constituted the instrument that was Harry. And so it is that life is often born and born again beside still, virgin ponds, untouched but for the mind of man and the breath of the Dreamer.
Harry rambled on day after day, observing the variety to be found within the imagination, and gaining proficiency with his instrument. On and on, deeper and deeper he progressed, generally following the path of the purple infrared stream--down into one enticing valley and up the other side, only to find yet another deeper than the one before. Finally he entered one steep valley that he sensed was somehow different. This particular valley scarcely looked at all like the jungle that he had become accustomed to. The trees were much larger and the spaces between them surprisingly clear of the customary jungle clutter. He stopped and listened patiently, but could not detect the slightest sound. The air was as still as a hunter. He carefully placed his flute in his belt and moved off in the direction of the stream. After walking an appropriate distance, to where the stream should have been, he stopped, puzzled. He looked toward the white cliff that was to have been his destination, but the valley was too deep and all he could see were rocks and trees rising above him in every direction like gigantic blades of grass. Harry tried to think rationally, to consider objectively but his mind felt like sand in an hour glass who's time was about to run out. He finally sat down on the forest floor and carefully laid his instrument in front of him. He was lost. Again.
"A point of focus..." he thought.
At that instant, a point of focus arrived in the form of a thin, black wooden shaft twenty-eight inches long. The shaft struck the ground immediately in front of him. The point of the shaft was embedded far into the soft humus of the Imagination and the long black feathers so carefully situated on the emerging end left no room for doubt. This was an arrow! He stared at the bizarre object as if it were a lethal viper. And then the ground began to tremble. Harry lifted his eyes from the arrow toward the sound and couldn't decide whether to cry or go blind.
Bearing down on him at an incredible rate of speed, was a large white horse. It was a magnificent, four-thousand-pound, hard-charging beast in full medieval battle dress; a 12th century war horse from the other world, its long white battle vestments dragging in the dust, creating veritable storm clouds of panic and confusion in Harry's young mind. Seated high atop the hard-charger was a most awesome looking creature covered from heat to foot with what appeared to be large, white metal scales. In one arm, it held a severely-pointed, twelve-foot lance. In the creature's other arm, it held small white shield and emblazoned across the front of the shield was a single red rose.
"This thing," Harry thought, "from out of some mythic child's nightmare, undoubtedly survives on the moist warm blood of questors such as myself and keeps creatures like the Phoenix as house pets."
His immediate response was to flee, but before his muscles could tense toward flight, the obvious futility of the gesture washed over him and he chose, instead, to close his eyes and think of something pleasant.
The creature pulled his mount to a halt immediately in front of Harry's stationary form and prodded him with the metal tip of his lance. Harry fell slowly over on his side and opened his eyes, positive that he was soon to be dead.
"Aye and 'tis glad I am that ye be still in one piece!" said the white knight, posting his lance in the ground and briskly flipping up his metal visor. "In the nick of time, I say. In another second he would 'ave skewered you like a bug on a pin!"
Harry could only stare wide-eyed at his apparent savior. He was intensely glad to see that it was a real flesh and blood person behind the ominous facade and not an evil creature at all.
"Say," said the knight, removing his weighty helmet and placing it over the pommel of his saddle, "you don't happen to have a flagon of rum do you? Or a skin of cool wine?"
Harry sat up and nodded helplessly. "Sorry," he said.
"'Tis just as well, I shouldn't really be drinking on the job anyway. But I can tell you, it sure is hot dusty work avenging evil and saving the distraught and the distracted. Say, how about some water?"
Harry shook his head and then pointed in the direction of the stream. "I've no water, but there is a stream..."
The white knight curled his lip in disdain. "Aye and there's eternity for anyone fool enough to drink from it! No young fellow, I'm not about to sip the brackish run-off from the caves of Nth Degree! Not while I'm still hale and hearty. I've my duty to pursue in the person of the villainous Black Knight!"
"But I've seen no black knight?"
"Aye," said the horseman, shifting in his saddle, "and you're not likely to, but..." and he pointed to the black shaft embedded in the ground. "It's obvious that he's had a look at you!"
Harry shivered at the thought of the arrow. "But where is he now?"
"Aye, and it's always hard to tell," said the white knight leaning forward in his saddle and looking around war
ily. "He hides in the overgrowth of the Imagination. He thrives in...the spaces..."
"The spaces?" Harry asked.
"Aye, lad," replied the knight with a stern look. "The spaces. The spaces between the rocks. The spaces between the trees, between objects, people, ideas...words! Look around you, he could be anywhere. He snatches up the unwary traveler and feeds him to his carnivorous steed, Chaos!"
Harry slipped his flute into his belt again and looked skeptically at his apparent savior.
"Aye, lad, I can see that you're a non-believer, but beware the lush silence that hovers in the spaces between, for Chaos is an awesome mount with a prodigious appetite and the Black Knight is but the ruthless servant of the evil beast!"
Harry nodded
"And who might you be?" said the knight. "And, if I might be so bold, what might be the nature of your mission?"
Harry hesitated, attempting to phrase an appropriate response.
"Well? Be quick about it, for I've got to be moving forward in pursuit while the evil varlet's trail is still warm!"
"Well," Harry said. "I'm on a quest to find The Muse. My name is Harry...and who might you be?"
The man in white armor laughed heartily. "Why, by all that's happy-go-lucky, you are a strange one. I should think it's perfectly obvious who I am! I'm the White Knight, doer of good deeds, savior of the poor and misbegotten, avenger of evil and bringer of glad tidings. And," said the knight, leaning forward in his saddle and whispering in low conspiratorial tones, "if it's truly the mews you're searching for, just follow in the direction I've come and you'll be on it in no time.
"But now," said the warrior, straightening in his saddle, "if you'll hand up the evil doer's villainous tool, I'll be on my way, 'fore this hour's time is past."
"But sir, what is your name? I mean, who are you and from where do you come?"
"Aye, my lord, you are full of silly questions for one so young. If it's a handle you're after, just say I am Sir Vain, The Avenger!"
"And where do you come from, Sir Vane?"
"I'm from the castle through the trees, just beyond the mews." Sir Vain snapped the metal visor low over his eyes.
"Please tell me something of the Muse, sir, for I've come a long way."
Sir Vain nodded his head sadly and raised his metal visor. "Forget the mews, lad, it's a low goal unworthy of one such as yourself, indeed more fit for beast than man. If it's a quest you're after, go find yourself a lady in distress. Now there's a quest most regal indeed, far more noble than a common mews!"
Before Harry could question him further, the white knight withdrew his lance from the soft earth and prepared to leave.
"Now I must go, so off with you, boy. Avanti, while thouest youthful thread is on the rise! Aye, and fear not sweet youth, for many a nervous needle hath been pierced by the stiff swiftness of a well thrust thread well taut."
With a lewd wink, Sir Vain dropped his visor and wheeled his horse to depart. "And don't forget, lad, if all else fails, many a glorious moment hath been spent with a well taught maiden fairly bought!" And with a lusty, "Har-har-har," he was gone, vanished through the trees and into the dense jungle beyond with a lightness and gentility that stood in contrast to his obvious mass. As Sir Vain turned to leave, he waved his heavy gloved hand, and in that action, he appeared to become extremely light and airy. His weighty metal- clad fingers were suddenly like silver feathers cast from some high flyer, and as his armored body passed through the dense undergrowth, it parted the humid vapors, just so, like the whoosh of a butterfly's wing on the upward swing.