by T. M. Lakomy
Nothing exists outside of the thought of the divine. Outside of the confines of space and time reigns the eternal ruler upon his throne. We are breathing inside the womb of existence, and we are contained in its material grasp of thought made reality. And that reality is pure illusion, restored through will. Whoever wields the will is master of creation. There is no such thing as the mind, for it is merely constructed of thought and memory and ideology. Combined, we are walking echoes mirroring each other, decaying organisms that thrive to die, our uniqueness lost in our ultimate weakness. You fall from the tree supine, and you look up at the revealed skies as you grasp the runes that have been offered to you.
Leaning against a tree resting, your eyes filled with the magnitude of the wonders of nature, you understand the patterns of the ants and the dances of the bees before you. But you are not resting; the spear at your side has pinned you to the tree, and your torn innards are quivering, though you have now forgotten the meaning of pain. Your blood runs freely, and you offer it to the ground as a sacrificial libation to the watchful spirits. Your heat you donate back to the tree, a token of grief for the spear that has pierced it.
You are patient for the process of the slow death, and your ragged breath becomes a meditation. You cede to the pain as if it were the embrace of a fiery lover, savoring its scorching lashes, its relentlessness. You admire its poignancy and its role in creation, acknowledging its purpose in the scheme of things as you exhale your life force, the rigidity of death dethroning you from life. Night falls, and your vision grows dark till you can no longer see. Then blackness envelops you tightly, pressing against your eyes, and you fall away again.
You are kneeling reverently, naked beside the river, contemplating its continuity and grace. Then a mighty weariness around your neck grips you and you realize there is a millstone around it. You nod and rise to your feet, swaying slightly, and without a second thought or regret cast yourself in. There is no interlude to the plunge but the whistling of the wind and the coldness of the whipping waters. You are stripped of breath, hurled down to depths unknown. You are long dead before you hit the bottom, and you are no longer bound to the body of mortality you grew accustomed to. You ponder in that darkness like a child in the womb, ensconced in the bosom of the river. You have seen the earth give in to time, but the water endures in its course towards the sea, forever echoing the primordial music of infinity.
OSWALD WAS AWAKE again, and this time he recognized the habitual noises and odors of the earth. For a moment he braced himself, waiting for the insatiable pain to seize him. But nothing happened. He was himself, but not. He was Oswald by name, but the memory of what he used to be was a long dead echo. His old self seemed transient, feeble, as if it were a shadow from a former lifetime, callow and unworthy of his current thoughts and precise machinations. He stirred now, sighing as he lifted himself to his feet, breathing in deeply.
It was noon and the sun was at its zenith, beaming from the skies like a beacon. Oswald smiled with assurance. His hair had grown long behind him, and his ashen grey beard now fell unkempt to his belt. He was clothed in long robes of the palest blue girt with a simple leather belt which held a long sheathe. He removed the blade from it curiously, examining it carefully, observing the runes and the fine filigree patterns on the hilt. Then he noticed by his feet a long gnarled staff. It was black, knotted, and crudely shaped, like a spindle whorl bound with several gnarled boughs. He understood what it meant instantly, and as he grasped it in his right hand, he felt the power surge from his body into it and awaken the spirit within. It knew him and his name, and responded to him with the coldness of a dormant fiend. Only then did he notice that his hands were tattooed with an interlacing pattern. Rolling back his sleeves, he saw that the design climbed up his arms. That he also understood.
The cairn stood as it had before, unmoved by the events that had befallen Oswald. He approached it with quiet reverence, seeing it with the fresh eyes of wisdom as a mere resting place for the mortal body. With a whisper he struck the cairn with his staff. White fire blossomed around it in a circle in the broad daylight. Now whoever approached it would be dissuaded from their purpose, for the fires would leap into the shape of armed men and burn whoever tried to disturb the stones. He bowed low before the cairn, then turned his back on the clearing and made his way out of the woods.
He was Oswald by name only, and even to that name he no longer belonged. He had died many deaths and come back again, purged from life and its futility through the perverse arts of initiation. He was truly reborn and truly awake. He was what they would name a wizard or shaman, something of the old world. He laughed softly to himself, thinking over his previous life, feeling nothing but pity for the vapid existence of mortals. And he knew what he needed to do.
He hummed a tune as he walked. Indeed, he was ready for the game ahead . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TAMARA LAKOMY IS an archaeologist specializing in the occult, shamanistic practices of indigenous people. She runs a foundation operating in East Africa that specializes in the cultural preservation of indigenous tribes and women’s rights and education, and she also advises East African governments. Additionally, she is a cofounder and pioneer of Blueprints.org, a global think tank providing sustainable solutions to challenged regions. Lakomy is a priestess in training, having embraced the faith of the Mother Goddess, and is a great animal lover, saving stray and neglected animals in her native country since she was young. She is of Berber (Amazigh) and Slavic descent.