A Meeting of Hearts

LET me begin where the tides of war begin to recede. Herein is obscured the will of the secret king, and the denunciation of the rebirth of false mercy. As I am ever at the task of executing the wishes of his perfection, I oft lay recourse to the daguerreotypes of the Noble Snails, and the matter of my own questing in The Castle of the Noble Snails.

There needs be the matters of the grotesque, in attempts giving justice to peace, and the daguerreotypes leave me to unrest. Such as had been the state beyond the status of his estate, in the cellars, as I had found; I look now and see, laughing. So close was it to me. So obvious as the event unfolded, that I could not see in hindsight, were these daguerreotypes in the cellars, I reproved him often for not disposing of them in one manner or another.

Yes, there shall be crabbed impressions of words from time to time, my digressions often are warped in a way that is not good. But this shall not detract from my present cast of mind at this, remembering the daguerreotypes in his cellars in the times before I ever saw his face.

I must remember that you know nothing of these things. My immanence since his departure to that sea has warped also my humility. Where it is said, “the ship that rests above the stars—who needed to be consoled, in that departure…..”

Again I ask: Does a gift bring tragedy? Hidden in the bosom of desire for now, I will weep for his confusion inconsolably.

I had been reading, I remember that fateful morning. Having just arisen from a very light sleep, for I remember the watchmen shouting at all hours, and as soon as the voices faded and I fell into my swoons, again arose those shirking banters by the way of the portico outside.

I lost myself in the silence that I understood to be the movement of Spirit. I can’t describe the state by a name. Something I have come to love in the years passing is the moments surfacing just before getting out of my bed. The moment of awaking is far more wonderful to me than that of falling asleep. I can remember it, I can experience it, but never can I describe the sheer wonder of the phenomena.

My teapot was sitting just off from my bed on a little table I had strictly used to set it on, and only it. A cup before bed, as I put away my books and clothes, preparing for my nightly journey to the mountains of the moon, where I would set traps for the little crows who nest amid the gloomy seas.

I removed the electrodes from my temples, and set the helmet on my nightstand. The voice moved in from the speaker, softly at first, bringing me back to my senses.

“Good morning, William. Today is March 17th, the anniversary of your cousin Kent’s wedding. I have prepared a solid meal today, of lentil and eggs. Toast is optional. Would you like toast?” My peace of spirit associating the re-entry into conscious thought was eased at the digital voice of Margaret, and I spent a soothing moment in thought, relishing her sensual voice.

“Yes, I think I would like toast. Is butter available today?”

“No, only jam. Would you like jam?”

“Yes, please. Currant, or grape. It does not matter.”

The music began to play, which I straightway turned off, the dial sitting next to where I kept my helmet. I picked up my meditation book, and turned to a random page. It said:

“To give and not to squander is the necessary discretion of the wise. Learn first to give, and then, coming like a charge against the enemy’s devices, quickly coming into surety thou shalt fall. He shall not make an ambush for thee, for thou hast all the forces of right lending. And if you come into malice because of your gift, then offer up your remnants to him, and he shall have to leave without his rights.”

I lay there in bed for a matter of minutes and thought about my dream, first copying the passage, and what it must signify parallel to this insight I had received upon awakening. I often scowled at the lack of time there was for me to entertain the remnants of my dreams before I was compelled by duty to my breakfast, but I had done it for so long, I was inured, and not as resentful than as if I had not been given the dream to start with.

It was my usual scenario starting out. I awoke alone upon the moon in my dirigible, letting down upon the spot of earth that was just outside my cabin. I dropped like a leaf upon the stony ground and shuddered with the realization that it was real: where I was, the other avocation that I was entrusted to here, and the malaise of knowing such a lonely place was all I could remit.

I had gone into my cottage where it seemed that I was led to by the fickle spirit I called Nod, and only knew because, I felt I had created this lonely world, forgetting my other life on earth at times, overwelmed and exhausted by the horrific solitude of living there and collecting data. I recorded every feeling in my voice-journal and lived solely on the little crops I grew in the greenhouse of my Soteria, pining ever after beef and wine.

That night I remember, I had raised up the flag as soon as I had gone inside. But instead of the usual insignia, the brown, four-pointed star and panda, it seemed orange, and fiery, as if it were in flames. However, I cannot remember if there were flames on the flag, or if indeed the flag itself was on fire as I raised it. The next thing I remembered in my journal was the fact that all throughout the recent treks to the moon, I had always this accompanying sensation that there was something hiding, living in my cottage with me, something I could not see.

This had gone on, as I noted in my journal, for quite a considerable time. The records show that since at least January I had noted a strange presence, not menacing, but definitely of a different order of habit and instinct than that of myself.

So the flag, the strange presence, and another anomaly was written in my journal when I awoke. That a massive object was lying just beyond earth, a dark object so that I could not distinguish it from the empty space, but it made a sound in the atmosphere around me, as if it were right upon my little plot upon the surface of the moon.

When I had finally overcome the languor, and the pinpointing of these certain images, mixed with the melody of Margaret’s voice, I was about my necessaries. I moved over the visions of the night, what I recalled in the moments between my nips. I drew my attention to my gait, and checked the movements of my limbs beset on all sides by the fleeting rains of retreating clouds. Surely it was a matter of self-consciousness for all that it impressed my attention then as now. All of this is without place. I tended to put more emphasis on long term memory of dreams, and not so much as I may do now, concerning a time, or a place not far removed. I set the journal down.

I looked into my cup of tea, expecting to see evidence in the leaves of my salvation, which I ever held dear and often looked for because of some question about choices I knew someday I must have to make. That day was the day. I say I practiced tasseography rather less to know the future, than to understand the present state of things. When I look into an oracle it is as much an act out of simple boredom, for I had the idea that I was bound for some kind of glory beyond what I knew in taking my ledgers to account, for the animals, and even as Vice-regent, I had come to expect the monotony of most solemn trust.

What started out as simple interest in Divinity proved to degenerate into curiosity in the anomalous, and the reading of certain pulp writers of fiction, fiction about wizards and such. It was really silly, I know. Still, today, I still enjoy looking into Divinity, and even lay a shred or two of interest in spiritualism.

Having completed my dream journal and the reading of the previous night’s tea leaves, I decided to sit in my sun-room and enjoy the insulated coolness of the conditioned air. I looked out through the southern window upon the Seville Garden.

There beside the solitary cypress a withered and pitiable screen of sedges wound around a not small Dutch birdhouse covered in hexes which were, for the most part, yellow and green; and a path. Beside the path, one I often trodded to make merry of my caste of earthborn wear a barrier of simple asphodels wound dither in their almost human gender. In the mornings, oft I would sit along the southern wall of my sun-room watching the ordinary folk as they held hands, or kissed within the hidden corners of the southern yard, almost too far for me to see from where I sat. I would walk among them and vex my spirit in it’s ever lonely stages ascending the rungs of secret fame, and wonder painfully at my own misery. How much they didn’t know about their own country, their own heritage and history was equally hard for me to bear, knowing what I did of these most brittle truths. The sagacity of garb, speaking in the colors worn on certain days, beyond the notice of these folk reminded me of what I longed ever for.

But it collected the folk in their festivals from before the time of our own order of the day, those winding paths, those asphodels diffusing the simulated air. Upon the top of the enclosed garden was the circle of glass, and right below it, the prominent fans that set the level of the seasons as best as was possible; and beyond, a world almost unknown to them, a world I wish I never knew.

Also in the garden there were two fountains along the eastern wall, which shot in luscious streams into one eachother, shaped much in the manner of an abstract fresco, too surreal to suggest aught but some erotic women in pose. I sternly shunned such vulgarities and not once or twice fought to have them removed, and very well could have, except that it would draw too much attention to my secret office, for all who knew me in the Seville Garden, knew that I hated those awful statues.

It was a Wednesday, and I was due for my weekly rendevouz with Lela, of whom much can and will be said. It was popcorn day, a day we looked forward to, to commemorate the earmark of our relationship. Although it wasn’t a physical relationship, we would touch our hands together, and it was hard not to have a gleeful fancy looking in each other’s eyes. Even in the beginning, when I was under the impression that she was a priestess, I tried to hide my post from her, but could not. So, when she revealed that she knew the secret, she revealed to me that she was not, in fact, a holy woman, but “an interested party, who cares as much about the country as anyone who knew it, too.” Then she expressed envy at my status and position, which angered me. I decided to hide my ire from her, for it would only do our country in.

After careful consideration of what life for me would be like if I had the freedom that some men have, to sleep until the afternoon, to work at will and in no certain frame of reference, I quickly decided that it is better to know the truth about the state, than to walk naievly through it, counting my lucky stars that I was given such fragile commands to uphold the structure of peace and scientific inquiry. Now after that I had risen, I took care of my hygene in the bathroom and placing the passage from the meditation book that I had copied on the bathroom mirror, removing the one I had placed there months ago, that said: “Quit eating ice-cream”.

The bathroom needed a quick cleaning, so I opened the cabinet below the sink and produced the cleaning supplies and went to work on the toilet and the bathtub. I spent ten minutes scrubbing that bathtub until my hands were covered with a wet, green powder, until that thing sparkled like a 10 carat diamond ring. I then realized I had only twenty or thirty minutes left until I would be needed for my meeting with the board of counselors in the auditorium. Wednesdays were my only days off from meeting with He To Whom All My Affection And Worthy Praise Must Needs Be Offered, and consequently, the day that I was afforded much free activity. It was this such fact that I repeatedly told myself, that my meetings with Lela, and my meetings with the board, could not possibly be considered any kind of rest, and told myself again, that I was due for a sabbatical. But it had been fourteen years, and I had not had one yet. I peered out onto the Seville Garden and watched a squirrel bury a pecan.

I was in the sunroom, having finished with my morning rituals, and had twenty minutes to read the newspaper, which time I tuned the music to a station that played muzack covers of songs I never liked in the first place, and laughed at my own credulity. There were deaths, and marriages, and a looking-into of a recent crime in Holpern Abbey, and I larked at my good fortune to never have crime in my quarters here at home in the eastern wing. Crime is not an option for someone of my good fortune. I simply have to comply with His directions, the advice of Lela and the board of counsellors, and all of my needs are seen to. Clothing, home, necessarily my safety, and the refinements of a well-to-do celibate were among my more usual rewards for living right, and doing my job; but there were others. I could claim a familiarity with secret knowledge, was given many gifts of strange and unusual import, such as might make a man believe that none could equal, but only by complying with that necessary humility of knowing that one day, I will die.

I then set to find out the events that had ensued the night before, while I was ripped from my excursions to the moon. I turned the computer on and sat down at the screen. I accessed the log of the night watchmen to see if it had been written yet. It had. I printed the reports and sat down to figure out what the commotion could have been.