Monkeys hear the call of themselves, but shaking their heads, they pass it off as simply another tolling of the bell and shudder in fear of the falling leaves, and the passing of something larger than they, and stubbornly remain instead steadfast in their ways, and cling to the simple things that they claim make life worth living, the things that masses of themselves have dictated to be right, the things that have been given to them, forced upon them till acceptance surpasses itself and evolves into ignorance of what is missed. Forgetfulness of true heritage is the hallmark of those to be pitied and helped along the avenue until the sought after street is found, and only they know which it is, and that not until it is happened along by chance, and usually out of desperation. And until they find it, those who have are called sicked or wicked or worse; words stemming from the root of living evil-fear. Fear drives the beasts to become more of the same until trembling no more, it becomes what they are, and vice versa. And as among themselves, farther still, it extends its horizons and is contagious to those susceptible, until they find the immunity and have learned, or at least begun to accept the need or the possibility of the need to learn the lessons put before them to conquer their fear and in so doing defeat their anger and hate and return to their ancestors which knew the way.
These things left behind mark the battle joined, the journey's first step. And when the boundaries unseen dissolve, and the imprisoning hand escaped, is freedom of sight gained and with this freedom.
And when beetles scuttle swiftly across the road, are they not to be admired? For when the singing begins, the jester himself stands in awe, forgetful of the kings eyes upon him. The wise men of the ages pass this along, but the unfortunate cannot hear, and the larks song at dawn is calling to the monkeys who are busy dodging leaves. A handful of sand we are, but who places worth on that? Seeking instead diamonds among
the limp, the wilting and damp.
The yellow faced dog glanced at me, the question clear in his eyes, of spires and churches and leaders long ago gone mad, searching for the diamonds of a race distantly near to us in their longing and hiding in brambles and berries of deceit and dishonesty and treachery. But I had no answers for the blue eyed hound lounging amid the tales of a jester dressed in green and red and yellow pointy hats donned for the king and queen who were in the keep with themselves for no one wanted to be graced by their presence any longer because the clouds had broken and given birth to a rain that didn’t fall but held there suspended in the peoples gleaming eyes full of fear of when the day would come that the prince would return for they had been untrue to their namesake as he travelled through the broken world trying to gather the diamonds that were so long ago forgotten by the yellow faced dog who now slept on the jesters lap. And when the gates were opened a sound poured forth from the jesters ears and he wished he could capture the sound on the parchment to present to the prince upon his return so he would know of the neglect and decay that he wouldn’t be aware of by walking in the tidy streets prepared by the citizenry to discolour their infidelity against unwanted, all knowing eyes.
So I picked myself up and wandered down the impeccable streets towards a goal I wasn't yet sure of, only wanting to be away from the truth that lingered in the dogs eyes as he watched me go and forlornly looked up at the snoring jester who was lost in a dream of arches and bows and hickory and birch and masters of the lore he had so tried to follow through the wispy remnants of time now wispy memories deep in the soul of dogs and wolves and worms. He will awake soon, the multi colored little man of glee, awaken to the kings shout as he calls for a song and a tale and a dance before he throws the queen to chambers and pillows and ecstasy amid toppled goblets bleeding there on the cold cobbled floor beneath cobwebs to high to be reached by the maidens who dared to enter here.
And the monkeys in the gardens cry out in glee as I pass, happy to see me on my way and they follow awhile behind their low stone wall, to be sure I move on through the high pillared gates of this place moving into the mist rolling through the wooded hills and arid desert just beyond the field of vision of the apes and they call out one last time as a song begins within the keep and a scream of a woman as she realizes with dread that she got exactly what she asked for so many years ago when she was a young maiden spinning in the courtyard with her nanny as her mother was off hunting noble things with wax in their rings and fire in their loins.
And I move on toward the call of what I asked for in a dream and in a trance of disbelief that such a thing could exist beyond my imaginings of a woman soft and true and high and of noble exquisite beauty that would call out for me in my dreams and in the silence of her despair deep in the night as the moon passes through the unknowing stars who glisten and wink as I move now into the desert of the jesters tale, and think of her eyes fixed on me in an internal glee afraid to let it pass her lips and ask for what she so desperately needs, afraid of the response and consequences in this world hard of experiences brought on unwilling, unknowing, but wished for all the same. As the lessons whip by like a rider on a steed of wind I grasp at the cold stars above wishing and seeking and despairing of the knowledge that was once mine, that I must regain lest the carrion of yore return and peck my unseeing eyes and toss them to the sparrows that accompany them through this wicked tale of mistakes and errors and triumph, glory and glee, happiness and despair.
But the continuum moves on forward never ending pausing or erring. And I am swept on ahead upon wings of fate and destiny determined by an unseen living wind that encompasses and envelopes and soothes as it enters my being and fills me with warmth and I know that the time is right and I lay the stones that begin the Pattern within me. I step on through the sands and pebbles, suspended by this wind that is everywhere and nowhere, and yet I wonder, question and perceive that which cannot be but that which must be for I am but a follower of that wind, forever cursed to receive the direction of the wind and to follow it as so few remember how to. And I am alone. Though life surrounds me on all sides, teeming throughout the desert, I am alone, and my steps continue, undaunting regardless of the resistance of the deep sand and the arid coldness of the desert night. And behind me the yellow faced dog yelps at me to wait and he joins me with the questions in his eyes now answered and we move on, out of the desert alongside a magnificent lake whose coastline we follow to the east under the fading stars as the suns begin to announce the days coming and is answered by the birds of a meadow blooming with greens and blues and a hint of reds somewhere and we move on towards wherever the Calling is leading us. I know not tomorrow nor can I remember what yesterday transpired, I only know that I tread amongst the high grasses and feel the cool morning wind and scents of flowers pervade this place and my ears follow the singing of the birds as the melodies rise to unexpected heights and dip down again to a long slow exclamation of joy. I am Now. The wind is Now. I float on.
I rejoin the path that I left, and Yellow follows me, trotting out ahead to lap at the cold water and wait for me, impatiently to cross the bridge where a song has arisen from the depths of the earth and dreams and forgotten jesters stand there listening in depression and dismay that they cannot sing of such mysteries and glee and sorrow. I begin to see. I know suddenly whence they came, and why. I perceive no chance in my coming here as I trace back in my mind the times with the monkeys in their gardens and I know what they know and they now wish and long for my return that we may share the secrets of one another and take the queen to heart, but I know I cannot go back there for the jester sleeps now and will not awaken though the king reddens in face and weakens of voice. Breaking bread with the mourners here at the music of the earth we share an intimate knowing without speaking our fears and we strengthen one another by the mere presence of Friends. We pass the flowers and part company though our souls will forever be as one, they accompany my mind as the Dream returns and I feel the Calling to be on. I am Now.
Much travelling behind me now I encounter the Tribe with their drums and bows and jewellery in odd places and dreamy knowledge of the Way and the Calling, the elders welcome me to mud huts and thatched roofs as the women gather the trappings for tonight and the girls prepare themselves for the Giving of which the elders explain to me. I feel I must be on but I cannot and yellow sleeps in a corner amid dust and drums and whimpers in a far away place known only to him I partake of their pipe and move on but my body remains motionless, trapped by their stares and tales and their wisdom is imparted to me and I am one with the tribe and it is useless to me as I awaken on a cliff overlooking an angry frothing white ocean with tall ships in the distance, their masts bending groaning against a tempest that doesn't reach the cliff where I stand and listen to the piper who stands next to me piping and teaching and whisking me away to long ago when the secrets were known and used and guarded by the few and I watch them as they care for the people who cannot hear or see and stumble on amidst their search for survival and the Few try to teach but their love falls on barren ground and when the army from the south appears, they are easily subdued with stories and rumours of their treachery, and the few disappear into legends and stories and time. I am returned now and listen to the piper who started a new tune here in the village where goodwives gossip and smiths tend to iron shoes and there is no thought on the Few, only in the occasional story that is passed along in the glow of the fire at night when the children are allowed to stay up late and listen to the oddmen who travel from the west and bring stories and tales and tunes that the piper now plays, searching for the Few who are returned but know it not and come seeking revenge for their banishment, revenge on the army from millennium ago that eradicated them and revenge on the people they so desperately tried to help, but who betrayed them, but I hear in the melody another new beginning, and not revenge for the Few have a single task and this they will do the Task with love and not revenge and darkness in the streets. The piper feels my truth my resistance and my reason and he goes on amid the crying babies of this village and I stand now on a peak whipping with snow looking down on other peaks stretching out and I know I am known to the Few, and I know there are others as me. I am Now. I follow the Calling and search for my brethren. Yellow is there. Yellow is always there. He knows. We go to the Few.
Bring wonders, their voices whisper to me as I slumber in the wooded glen with monkeys and deer about sniffing flowers quietly as not to disturb me, the wolves are there guarding me and the lions grumble in the distance, speaking our true brotherhood and the birds sing to me a slow tune to ease my sleep, and the voices continue, bring wonders, bring love, bring peace and happiness, end the warring and deceit and competition for the gifts we have found, end pain, bring peace. I slumber on and awaken weeks later filled with peace and love and power. Yellow and I move on the wildlife following.