Into-the-Dark

On a silvery night, out here on the moor, something is cooking, of what I'm not sure. In the valley below me, I see figures come together, their movements are slow as if they follow a leader. They seem to be swaying, or is it a dance, bodies moving in rhythm as if in a trance.

And the trees seem wary and the grass starts to shiver, and my bones turn to cold and I wish I hadn't hid here. Did the moon just get brighter? Did a siren just sound? Now the figures are glowing as they open the mouths.

At first so quiet that I strain to hear, then the sound invades me and I put my hands over my ears. And the seventeen souls of seventeen songs rips through the night, and the figures burn red as the moon freezes white. And the trees run away as a new sound is heard, and up on this ridge I'm alone and I'm scared.

A grumble of drumming and the rocks dive for cover, and a piercing tune that sounds like no other. My whole body shakes as ground itself moves, and it's from the earth itself, that I feel this groove. The seventeen songs have awoken the souls, of hellish musicians and upwards they rose.

And the moon is extinguished, but the songs carry on, and in the dark I don't know where the singers have gone. In my blind state I feel every note and every beat, until I am just the songs and I rise to my feet. My senses have gone, I am only this tune, and I sway and I dance and I know it will be soon.

My mouth starts to open and I'm desperate to sing, go down to the valley and join in this thing. But the words are not in me and I fall to my knees, the tune leaves my body and I well up with tears. And I cry and cry until it is light, and everything looks normal no trace of the night.

I walk to the valley and feel nothing at all, except a humming in my brain of a song half recalled. And two years have passed and I've searched and I've looked, but found few answers and had no good luck. But today could be different as my sources have found, word of seventeen women moving around.

They've boarded a ferry and head for the isle, and they're all dressed in white and have fearsome smiles. If I run and I race and use all my might, I may just make it before day turns to night. And if I do, I won't be hiding away, I'll be dressed in white and ready to play.

And when the moon turns me silver I'll open my mouth, the eighteenth soul of the eigtheenth song will come out. And as I glow red I'll know that watching the scene, will be the next voice with eyes wide with fear. But that's for the future for this is my time, and the ground starts shaking to the rhythm and rhyme.

From beneath the depths all the musicians will come, and me and the others will sing now as one, and the answers to all questions now come to me, truth only found in our strange harmony. Why are we here, and what it's all for, on a silvery night, out here on the moor.

It's frantic tonight in the bleak house at the back of beyond. Preperarations are being prepared for a game that's afoot. And the starry windswept sky seems to blink at all this industry, and the moon's nowhere to be seen on a night like this. There's a scent of blood on the wind and a taste of violence on the tip of every tongue.

Somewhere, in another part of nowhere, they're shakin' in their boots, waiting for that deadliest of snakes to strike. Revenge is always expected, but long overdue, so she frequently catches even the most alert by surprise. Tonight she will be here, everyone can feel her, but noone is talking, safety in silence and solitude reigns.

Footsteps are muffled by the swirl of the wind, but beating hearts can be heard in beating brains as nerves become frayed. Dry mouths and churning stomachs give way to equal measures of fear and excitement mirroring the equal measures of earlier dutch courage. The mob is outside and it wants to come in.

Inside a fever of anxiety has gripped all and sundry, all this waiting, all this waiting, let them come and let it be done, anything but this waiting. And in answer to this prayer, hell fire pours in through the doors and windows and it won't be leaving until everything is burnt. And the world becomes a cacophony of squeals and shrieks and profanities and blood.

Early morning sees the beaten and wounded stumbling towards dreams of sanctuary. Prices have been paid, scores settled, eyes for eyes, teeth for broken teeth, and like every other time, everybody has lost. And the spirit of revenge leaves this sullen land and only fear knows of her return.

....and from up on the plateau, above the plain, not only could I see the stones stretching out into the distance, but I could also see the weather approaching, rapidly. The bright spring sunshine stopped abruptly, the dark cloud not only covered the sun, but almost seemed to extinguish it. The darkness came in, the heat of the day was transformed into a cold biting wind, and then the rain started.

I had only wanted to walk up onto the rise to get closer to the circular mound of trees, not to enter this otherworldly place. It seemed as if someone had other ideas, however, as the rain started to come down stronger, soaking and chilling me. The only source of shelter as far as the eye could see was in those trees, and it felt like I was being herded towards them. I remained resolute though, my thoughts were that if I could only make it down to the stones, then this storm would cease. It was as if my thoughts had been heard, however, as by my third step down the slope, the rain had been replaced by sleet, and then hailstones. The hail hit my head, my face, my arms, my legs, pounding me into turning around. I took two more agonising steps down, then relented, and with tears in my eyes, turned, and bolted for the trees. I seemed to fly along, pushed by the wind, and pursued by the hailstones. I subconsciously remember losing my sandals in the flight, but it seemed unimportant as my feet didn't seem to be touching the ground. Then suddenly I was passing the first of the trees, I remember thinking about everything and nothing at the same time, then falling to the floor in the middle of the circle. The canopy was thick here, yet surely not so thick as to not be penetrated by the wind and hail. Yet, I raised myself onto my knees and looked around, outside of the trees the air was dark, I could see hailstones the size of strawberries batter against the ground, some of the outer branches of the trees were being whipped to and fro in the wind. But here, in the circle I couldn't even feel a breeze, no raindrops penetrated the circle, there was only the trees and the silence for company.

I stood up, and although no longer in the elements I was still wet and cold. I wrapped my arms about myself in a vain effort to get warm, but somehow felt all the colder for the effort. The summer dress and cardigan I wore were soaking wet, my hair was dripping, and my hands and feet were blue from the cold. I had come out on a warm spring day and been caught up in winters' swansong. I looked around me, it was dark in the trees, and there was little to make out in the circle. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a rose on the ground, but it was nowhere to be seen once i'd turned my head. And the silence, complete silence, no rain or wind could be heard. I stumbled towards the nearest tree, reached out and stroked its' bark. It felt right but something was missing, there was a lack of smell, the texture was fine but I should be smelling this tree. Quickly, I put two hands on the tree, controlled my ragged breathing, and gently placed my forehead against the bark and closed my eyes. Nothing. Complete and absolute nothing. I realised that I was not embracing a tree at the same time as I heard a key turn and a bolt slam shut. My eyes shot open but saw nothing but blackness, the air was thick and still, my capture was complete. But whose prisoner had I become?

And the mists of Avalon swelled, the thin layer of low cloud across the plains grew plump and rounded, a size 16 fog, curvy, enticing, and with long plumes of swirling whiteness for arms, welcoming.

The fog called to me, reached for me, wanted me, and I wanted her. I wanted to have those soft arms embrace me, to pull me firmly but gently into that milky white bosom close to her heart. Hold me in that cold embrace, envelop me in the grip of approaching winter.

For death lies in the heart of this Avalonian beast. Her veins of pure white mist are fed by the spilt red blood of her victims. She is a wicked mistress, and her ghostly wolves are out this evening hunting for their kill and her prey.

Be you weak and feeble minded, or be you strong, stout, and resolute, you should all fear this maiden of the cold muffled silent end. For she is the true queen of equality, all victims welcomed, no questions asked, endless sleep always guaranteed.

My hill top is now an island surrounded by an endless sea of encroaching white foam. I am on the last outcrop of land waiting to be swallowed up by the swirling rising misty depths. She has come for me at the last, making me wait for my slow and painless release, a tease 'til the very end.

The first damp tendrills of smokey white breath are tickling at my toes now.................

The predator entered the city by night, the cover of darkness allowing it to slip unnoticed into these overly familiar surroundings. Moving rapidly, close to the shop frontages and away from the glare of the street lights, eyes darting this way and that, searching, feeling, yearning for it's prey.

A smell wafting on the cold night air grabbed the predator's attention. A hot dog stand and a vendor, squeezing overcooked onions onto an undercooked piece of meat inside yesterdays fresh bread. A crowd gathered around the stall, unaware inebriated youths risking poisoning as they stuffed the unpalatable offerings into gaping mouths, greasy juices running down their fingers and chins. The predator smiled inwardly, there would be easy pickings here tonight.

A sound, violent, angry. Young males involved in ritualistic posturing, verbally jousting in forlorn attempts to impress one another. Each blissfully unaware that they are all too self-obsessed to notice. The group come closer, trashing a trash can along the way, last nights detritus escaping for another unexpected evening of fun on the city slabs. As the group swagger on by, one of them staggers on by, something which does not go unnoticed by the now following predator, silently stalking the noisy crowd, eyes peeled, senses heightened, it would be soon.

The group of young men find their destniation, a run down office building pretending to be a down town bar. One by one they enter, handing over notes and coins for the privilidge of being ripped-off by watered-down over-priced drinks served by bored students in tight t-shirts dreaming of far-away places. The staggerer, is now a straggler, still outside as he finds his briefly lost wallet brimming with a weeks wages of dreams. This does not escape the notice of the predator, this will be the one.

She steps out from the shadows and unfastens her long leather coat, the first time to be seen on this fateful night in all her glory. Illuminated by the glow of an orange light she checks herself briefly in a shop window. Long legs, sleek and lean sandwiched between too tall stilettos and the too high hemline of a faded ripped denim skirt. Breasts, improbably large, barely covered by the flimsiests of polyester animals catch the attention under a shock of peroxide hair and over-done sexless black eyes. She moves determinedly towards the staggering straggling victim as he enters the bar. His card is marked, tomorrow he will have his life, this predator is strictly cash and cards only.

Just bang the side of my head once more, "hello, anyone at home?" Gosh, did I really just hear something rattle in there? Yesterday I was a human being but I'm not so sure anymore. Was that sleep last night? I guess it was rest, of a sorts, but surely not sleep. And the air was thick, the same air as always, yet it had substance, and it was pervading my outer and inner space, scrambling my already scrambled brain, until the remaining mush was like a primordial soup, capable of anything. Then the rush of thoughts, ideas, hopes, dreams, magick, lusts, and needs. Yet as each one was being born into this brave new world, primordial hands would shoot forth throttling creativity in the foetal stage of wonderous existance. Human hands, my hands, strangling the life out of my own crude attempts at recycling the recycled thoughts of the herd.

Re-enlightenment comes slowly sometimes, and at quite an emotional cost, as I writhe sleeplessly gripping with fingers and toes and teeth to this two dimensional plane of fuctionality encased in a three dimensional illusionary hologram. Screaming "no!" I sit bolt upright surrounded by the aura of darkness, listening to the thump thump thumping of my heart, something is here as well as me.

And so, slowly, I let go. Human I am not, but it has been so long, so very very long that I had forgotten. It's a mixed blessing being free of this existance of imaginary needs formulated by the gravitational pull of the mind. Stop expanding your mind and start expanding your soul, and the click is heard in the lock, as the gates of the world are thrown open and nothing you want, but everything you really need is now yours to enjoy in your new found endless beautiful existance.

Hmm, yes, it was definatley a rattle that I heard.

A grey cold mist hangs around dark skeleton trees, the air is wet and heavy today, it is not a delight to breathe, or exhale. Movements in the dank undergrowth betray birds that refuse to fly in cold wet thick skies. This place, that normally feels like the centre of a vast beautiful garden, today seems like the last piece of land before the air all ran out. Life is holding on, but with each forced breath, the inevitable end draws nearer.

Some skins are harder to shed than others!

the words come out smarter, better sometimes, you know what it is, it's inspiration, that's what it is, yeah, sweet inspiration, the kind that lifts you up and takes you into the dreamland, where everything glows, because everything is gold, and i'm dancing there, madly, my arms flailing, my head shaking, my breath is coming in short bursts, my heart is pounding pounding pounding, the rhythm of my heart is pounding the beat, and i'm dancing, and this feels good, it feels reeeaaallll good, and i want to stay here forever, i want to live in here, this is so much better than out there, out there where the people come and go, but they never know, out there where cars are cool, ha ha the fool, out there where everyone is having a shit time but pretending that it's really all they ever wanted, everyone's pretending, it's the biggest conspiracy, nobodies telling, shush keep it quiet, don't shatter that illusion, what will be left, don't tell cos they will all want to come in here, all of them will want to come in here, and that won't be good, no no, that would be bad, yes very bad, coming in here with their false truths and their false gods and their false drugs, and their false lives, out there i have a false life too, but i check it in at the cloakroom before i come in here, in here i am me
and i smoke another cigarette as i think of what might have been, of places never seen, of the magic that has occurred and that which is yet to happen, running with the pack, the adrenaline kicks in, there's a scent on the wind, is it the scent of hope, or is that too much to hope for, blind faith is what i need, but faith in me is all i have right now, if only i can find it, it's somewhere, waiting to break out, and in here it has broken in, take it with me, go out there, go outside, with faith in myself, pure in my heart, if not my mind, pure in my knowledge, if not my deeds, and all this supercedes my needs, ha ha but i am me
the dancing has stopped, and now i am slow, this heavy weight that i carry around is weighing me down, how can i run with the pack when this burden makes me slow, i am running in drifted snow, with lead boots on my feet, and fear for company, and guilt for a companion, and myself for a friend, and i need to lose all three of them, but they are swift and i am slow, i will need more than speed to free myself from my chains, and with every moment they grow tighter, bounding me to myself, making me believe that i am not me, but who i am supposed to be, the figament of the imagination of everybody i have ever known, imagine yourselves, leave me alone, for alone i am, and alone i shall be, and alone i will be me
outside the birds are singing, now that is fantastic, inside my computer hums, it's fan sporadically kicking in, whilst occassionally i hear the whirring sound of electrodes working as they keep up with me asking it to work, surely this should be silent, it's 2005 and still i have no silence, in here it should be silent, so my thoughts can fluorish, but no, clickety rickety is what i here, i wanna go out and hear the birdsong, but i need to be me, not your imagination, so the birds will not have me as an audience today, except covertly, from behind the walls of my fortress, as i listen to their songs of freedom, whilst inside i have my freedom, and never the two do meet, i have no birdsong, but i am me
i've missed you ever so much, your breath, your laughter, your touch, the hand that rocks the cradle, the sweet sweet lullabye, it makes me cry, but now you have returned and i am one again, i can achieve anything, i am reborn this day to you, i am reborn this day to me, now i can see, and i will go outside, and i will be me

And the wind picked up, whipping through the trees snaking along on it's never-ending course from nowhere to everywhere and back again. The twilight was nearly over, it was dark now here in the wood, but the last of the witches purple pervaded through the branches, a sign of the magic to come.

I sat in the circle of 13 elms and drank from the flask i had carried up the hill with me. Hallowed wine on this hallowed night, spiced with the autumnal fruits of the field, it would not be long now.

A sound?

Music, of a sort, pipes, a flute like no other flute I had heard winding away through the trees on the increasingly freshening wind. The elms were breathing around me, I could see their protective trunks heave outwards and inwards whilst their limbs swayed and danced to the rhythm of the unseen player.

The wood was illuminated now by the large blackness of my ever expanding pupils that were mirrored by the eyes of the watchers all around. An item of curiosity in a cage of elm, come to the zoo for the strange one has returned with her raven eyes, dangerous eyes full of images from the nightmares of the faerie folk.

Oh rescue me, not from these trees but from the land beyond the trees that you cannot quite see. That land that you glimpse at the edge of your vision is my daymare of reality dragging me down into a world of pain and heartbreak and lies and death.

My inner being erupts out of this earthbound shell and rises high above the elms, above the wood, into the beautiful deep black night sky where it bursts open illuminating everything in a brilliant silver light, and the trees are mine, the wood is mine, this beautiful earth is mine and I am theirs.

Play on, oh beautiful musician of my soul, play on and make this night last forever more so I can be saved from the cruelty of dawn, play on so I can be free, outside from my world of trepidations and limitations, play on, play on, play on.

The music has ended, and my weary time wracked body crawls out from its' leafy bed and climbs up to the summit of the wood just in time to see the sun appear on the horizon. And as I watch this most wonderous event, the rays illuminate me in the cold gold light of despair, if only you had played on!