One Nation’s Spirit

In the olden days, the peoples of this land lived together. There was disagreement between the leaders of the Nations. There was war between the Nations. But the Peoples of the Land lived together. Then the White Man came to their lands. This story starts not long after the White Man had arrived and settled.

***

It was barely dawn when a great commotion stirred the Nation awake. Fearful of an attack by the neighboring tribe, the Abenaki, the first awakened by the commotion sounded the alarm. Then the whole population bustled, mothers sheltering the children and their elders, young and old warriors mounting their steeds, drawing bowstrings and aiming arrows at the enemy. But there was no enemy attacking the Nation this morn.

As calm returned to the Cree Nation, the elders came out of their dwellings to meet the dawning sun and searched the horizon. Above the treeline, far to the North, beyond the Abenaki territories, plumes of black smoke rose to intercept the first rays of sunlight.

The sounds of commotion that had awakened the Nation originated there. Cries of men in pain could be heard throughout the morning, carried on the icy austral winds.

In the evening, as the Nation’s people gathered around the fire to tell tales of their ancestors’ exploits, a convoy of Abenaki warriors descended upon the Cree. It was River Fang who first noticed the colors of peace on their bare-breasted warriors. None carried any weapons.

None, except one. Moon Claw, the eldest son of the Abenaki shaman and their Nation’s most fierce warrior carried a heavy ceremonial tomahawk on his shoulder. Moon Claw rode at the head of the convoy, alongside his father, Star Owl, their bodies painted with the emblem of the Abenaki Nation.

As Moon Claw and Star Owl approached the fire, they were greeted by Stones-of-the-Waterfall, the Cree shaman, and her eldest son and leader of the Cree Nation, Treewalker.

“We come in peace,” announced Star Owl with the voice of the night.
“We welcome you, Star Owl and Moon Claw of the Abenaki. We offer the warmth of our flames and a drag of the pipe of Brotherhood,” responded Treewalker. “Please, join us.”

The four of them sat by the fire and the pipe passed to each who in turn drew in the little blue smoke that appeases the spirits. Finally, the silence around the fire was broken.

“This morning, the Huron Nation to the North was attacked,” stated Moon Claw furiously. “Our scouts crossed over the hills and report that the Nation has been ravaged and destroyed. Few survivors remain.”
“This is a terrible tragedy indeed,” conceded Stones-of-the-Waterfall.
“It gets worse,” continued Star Owl, “Our scouts also report that the Iroquois Nation to the East has disbanded and their tribesmen still flee in all directions. The Mohican Nation too has been completely eradicated.”
“Who could have done such a thing? Even the White Man could not accomplish such feats!” growled Treewalker, almost incredulous.
“Not who, young one,” sneered Star Owl, “but WHAT!”
“Do you mean…?” started Stones-of-the-Waterfall.
“Yes, if the whispers of our ancestors’ divinations are to be believed, it is the Spirit of the Forest who descends upon our lands,” completed the old Abenaki shaman with a note of despair.

Hushed murmurs rushed through the population of the Cree Nation crowded just beyond the heat of the fire. The Spirit of the Forest was walking the land!

“Treewalker, people of the Cree Nation, I have come bearing the voice of the Abenaki Nation to offer the Cree Nation an alliance so that we may stand united against the impending threat and defeat it,” announced Moon Claw of the Abenaki, loud and proud.

He sat by the fire and drew the little blue smoke, patiently awaiting the decision of the Cree Nation’s leaders.

For some time, Treewalker and Stones-of-the-Waterfall communed together, pondering the value of the offer proposed by the emissaries of the Abenaki Nation. If the Cree Nation was under threat, the alliance would markedly improve our chances of survival, pointed out Treewalker to his mother. She agreed, but pointed out to her son that the threat might not be so real to the Cree Nation: We are a people of the forest, my son, and our Nation has protected and lived in harmony with the forest on our territory. The Spirit of the Forest surely has no anger for the Cree.

Mother and son turned back to their guests and shared their decision.

“With respect to the Abenaki Nation, the Cree will not accept your offer and will not join the alliance you propose. The Cree Nation is at peace with the forest and so we do not fear from the Spirit of the Forest,” declared Treewalker. “We will not provoke the fury of the Spirit of the Forest and risk his wrath.”

Moon Claw rose to his feet briskly and spat in the Cree Nation’s fire. “COWARDS!” he roared, “I should kill you where you stand, Treewalker!” brandishing the tomahawk menacingly.

Thousands of arrows were instantly pulled back on tight bowstrings to prevent the Abenaki leader from making good on his threat, but Stones-of-the-Waterfall raised her hands in appeasement. She used the soothing voice of the songbird and whispered to the Abenaki warriors: “Keep your strength, young Abenaki. You will need it this night, I fear.”

As he walked away from the fire, the disappointment was as plain on the old Abenaki shaman’s face as the White Man stands out in the lands. The Abenaki convoy left in the night, quietly, as peacefully as they had come.

It was barely dawn of the following morning when a great commotion stirred the Cree Nation awake. Fearful of reprisals from the Abenaki Nation for having turned down their offer, the first awakened by the commotion sounded the alarm. Then the whole population bustled, mothers sheltering their children and the elders, young and old warriors mounting steeds, drawing bows and aiming their arrows towards the enemy. But there were no enemies attacking the Nation this morn.

As calm returned to the Cree Nation, the elders came out of their dwellings to meet the dawning sun and searched the horizon. Above the treeline, to the North, plumes of black smoke rose from the Abenaki territories, intercepting the first rays of sunlight.

The sounds of commotion that had awakened the Nation originated there. Cries of men in pain could be heard throughout the morning, carried on the icy austral winds.

The rest of the day, the men, women and children of the Cree Nation experienced doubt and fear. The tension surged when the Cree scouting party returned from the Abenaki lands over the hills to the North. Few had been left alive. The Nation had been ravaged and brought to the ground.

Was the Cree Nation to be next? Was the Cree Nation to share the fate of the Mohican, Iroquois, Huron and Abenaki Nations? Was the Cree Nation to end early on the next morning before the sun rose?

In the evening, as the population of the Cree Nation gathered around the fire, Treewalker felt he had to intervene to lift his people’s spirits. He stood above the fire and called for the attention of all his people.

“People of the Cree Nation, I, Treewalker, having drank the milk that fell from the bosom of wisdom, command you to shed your fear of the Spirit of the Forest. Our people have respected and honored the Animal and Plant spirits that are His Sons and Daughters, we have taken only what we have needed from the forest and we have mended it throughout the cycles according to the lore of our ancestors.”

There was enthusiastic nodding through the audience. The cloud of fear was dissipating.

“The Spirit of the Forest will recognize the Cree Nation as its benefactor and thus, the He will leave our Nation in peace.” Reassured, the people of the Cree Nation shared tales and stories before sleeping soundly.

It was barely dawn of the following morning when the Cree Nation woke to a great commotion. Fearful, the first awakened by the commotion sounded the alarm. Then the whole population bustled, mothers sheltering children and elders while young and old warriors mounted their steeds, drew bowstrings and let loose their arrows onto the enemy.

The Spirit of the Forest had descended from the hills to the North and had reached the edges of the Nation’s border. The Spirit of the Forest was laying waste to the Cree Nation with the strength of a handful of armies.

The rain of arrows bearing the colors of the Cree Nation blotted out the dawning sun for a breath. The Cree Nation was after all the most populous in the land and their warriors were legion. As the deadly wave of sharp shadow converged on the Spirit of the Forest, a whirlwind of tree leaves erupted, a flurry of blood crimsons, honey goldens, earthen browns, and sea greens that deflected the lethal assault harmlessly.

The maelstrom of leaves conjured by the Spirit of the Forest fell to the ground carrying stone, bone and wooden arrows. A thick lake of humus rapidly formed as the decomposing leaves reached the earth and drowned thousands in one terrifying parry. Panic spread rapidly among the Cree Nation. Even the most hardened and courageous warriors experienced dread beyond anything they had ever felt in their worst nightmares.

The Spirit snuffed out the fire of the Cree Nation like a man would a candle with two fingertips, and plunged the territories of the Cree in darkness. Because the Spirit of the Forest was almost immaterial, the unnatural night made him invisible. However, the Spirit’s presence could clearly be heard, flattening dwellings, wrecking canoes, and destroying the Cree people.

In His wake, cries of pain, the weeping of despair and the laments of sorrow for the ones lost drained what remained of the Cree Nation’s courage. Just as all hope was leaving, a staghorn blew a familiar note, strident and high-pitched. Not far from the South, the Algonquins had sounded the call to war. Soon, the bullhorn of the Mohawks, the moosehorn of the Montagnais, the deerhorn of the Sioux, and the buffalohorn of Apaches joined the declaration of war.

In rode what remained of the Peoples of the Land, a fraction of what was but a few cycles ago. Just a short time before, many other Nations would have come as they did for the centennial potlatch. The newcomers to the battle all carried with them the fire of their Nations and instantly, the territories of the Cree Nation brightened.

So much light from the combined fires of the Peoples of the Land forced the Spirit of the Forest into a vulnerable body of flesh and bone. As his form solidified, Treewalker stood before Him and there was a lull in the battle. The few hundred warriors that remained, barely two-dozen to each Nation, formed a circle around Treewalker and the Spirit of the Forest, their weapons at the ready to finish the battle, which had been decisive.

From all corners of the land, the Peoples of the Land had answered the call for survival and allied unwittingly against a common threat.

“Spirit of the Forest, on behalf of the remaining Peoples of the Land, you have been defeated!” Treewalker thundered and what remained of the Peoples of the Land cheered for their victory. He took a step forward and whispered to the Spirit of the Forest, “Why, O great Spirit of the Forest? Why have you attacked the Peoples of the Land?”

The Spirit’s voice still screeched and boomed like a hundred rockslides and he answered Treewalker with deep anger burning in the embers that were his eyes. “THE FOREST OF THE LAND IS DYING!”

Treewalker pressed the defeated Spirit pleadingly. “But why did you attack the Cree Nation? The Cree people have tended to your forest and the Spirits who reside there. Why then does the Cree Nation deserve this punishment?”

The Spirit’s voice hissed like a thousand underground rivers. “THE MOHICANS, THE IROQUOIS, THE ABENAKI AND ALL THE OTHER NATIONS HAVE PLEADED THE SAME NONESENSE! THE FOREST DOES NOT BELONG TO ONE NATION. ALL MY TREES SHUDDER WHEN ONE OF THEIR BRETHERN IS CUT DOWN OR BURNT TO ASHES, HOWEVER FAR APART THEY MAY STAND, IN WHICHEVER OF MAN’S NATIONS!”

On his last word, the Spirit of the Forest lunged forward, refusing to surrender. Spears, arrows, axes, tomahawks and knives pierced the Spirits mortal vessel and He fell in Treewalker’s arms, gasping His last breaths. The Spirit of the Forest looked deep into Treewalker’s eyes and blew the cries of the multitudes in despair into his ears.

Treewalker felt the quivering of every plant and tree leaf, heard the dewing tears of each blade of grass, saw the alarm shared by every bird in the sky, tasted the poison slowly killing all the fish in all the rivers, and smelled the impending doom that all animals of the land had picked up generations before. And the Spirit of the Forest dissolved into oblivion.

As the cheering resumed, the leader of the Algonquins, Geyser Heart, walked up to Treewalker and clapped him on the shoulder with a broad smile.

“My friend! Our peoples have defeated the Spirit of the Forest! We have triumphed!”

Treewalker heard Geyser Heart, but he was distracted, lured deeper into the sorrow to which the Spirit had awakened him. It was all around. The trees, the wind, the sun and the moon, all were shaken and fearful with growing worry at the loss of the Spirit of the Forest. It was so overwhelming that Treewalker did not think to tend to his wounds.

Geyser Heart saw the expression on young Treewalker’s face and called a shaman to heal him. The shaman who came was Opal-of-Salt of the Montagnais Nation and as she tended to Treewalker’s health, he asked for the fate of Stones-of-the-Waterfall.

Stones-of-the-Waterfall, mother to Treewalker mother and shaman to the Cree Nation had perished in the battle, admitted Opal-of-the-Salt.

“We may have lost much, brave Treewalker-of-the-Spirit,” Geyser Heart said solemnly, anointing the Cree Nation leader’s new name, “but we have many spoils to share from this legendary battle. The tales they will tell when we are the ancestors will guarantee us privilege and worship in this life and beyond! Well done, my young friend.”

Treewalker tried to control the sadness and anger welling up inside him. They fought bravely, suffering losses beyond the physical pain of the blows and death, beyond the spiritual torture of being assailed by this otherworldly terror. Those who eventually survived the battle had lost the memories.

“Geyser Heart, the Peoples of the Land are but a handful now and we have lost our families, our heritage, our culture.”

“Yes,” replied Geyser Heart, “and that void we should fill with the bounties that come with victory to assuage our peoples’ pain! The land is ripe and the forests now belong to the Peoples of the Land, truly!” His eyes scanned the horizon, contemplating the prize the Peoples of the Land had won with the blood of their own this morning.

“Do you not realize, Geyser Heart, that the Spirit of the Forest attacked us because we had been hurting the forest with axes of steel, embers of fire, and the White Man’s foul air? Do you not feel the tug of the void of the Ender of Worlds left gaping, drawing us and all in? And now you propose to take advantage of His absence to defile the Spirit of the Forest’s Creation further?” Treewalker was shocked and his face flushed with rage.

“Exactly!” cried Geyser Heart with a smirk, “We will cut the forest and sell it to the White Man, we will clear our land for their fields of grain and we will take all his riches and become a united and powerful Nation!”

“You fool!” Treewalker exploded, “The bounty from this battle will be a curse upon the Peoples of the Land! Without the Spirit of the Forest to protect the land, you condemn us all!”

“Ungrateful, disrespectful bastards!” Geyser Heart growled as he silently drew his knife and stabbed Treewalker in the back. The other Peoples of the Land reserved the same fate for their brothers of the Cree Nation that remained standing. Only a lucky few managed to escape into the wilds.

Many cycles later, the representatives of the Peoples of the Land’s alliance that had brought down the Spirit of the Forest went to the White Man’s house. The house was made entirely of logs and seemed sturdy and impervious to the elements. It sat atop a barren hillock where only short grasses grew in small patches. Three goats were tied on a short rope near the tiny green islands.

The White Man rose from his chair on his porch and locked the barrel of his musket on the emissaries of the Peoples of the Land. The White Man did not recognize the colors of peace they were wearing on their chests, and he was quickly on the defensive.

“Hold up there, fellas!” the White Man yelled threateningly.
“We come in peace!” cautioned Geyser Heart.
“Alright then,” accepted the White Man as he lowered his weapon, “What do you fellas want, then?”
“We have cut down all the trees from our lands and we have prepared all the lands to be sowed with grain. We would like to trade with the White Man, our wood and our lands, in exchange for your most precious and valuable riches.” The gleam of greed spread like an infection in Geyser Heart’s mind while the White Man looked up and down the representatives, inspected the timber and visited the barren lands, ready to be seeded.

When they returned to the White Man’s log house atop the hillock, he welcomed the Peoples of the Lands’ dignitaries inside his home and offered them hospitality. “I must go a short while to collect our most treasured and precious valuables to repay you for your wood and your lands. Please, make yourselves comfortable. Have a drink of firewater!”

And the White Man promptly left and the emissaries of the Peoples of the Land laughed with glee and congratulated themselves and each other. They would be bringing back riches and power beyond anything imaginable by the ancestors of the old Nations. The Peoples of the Land would become Masters of the Land!

It was Bear Claw, the son of Moon Claw of the old Abenaki Nation, who noticed the smell.

“Something is burning!” he yelped.

The White Man’s log house was on fire. Quickly, the emissaries rushed the door of the cabin but it had been blocked from the outside and they could not get out. The fire raged quickly reducing the house and its contents to ashes.

The White Man led a savage campaign, hunting down the rest of the Peoples of the Land in just a few short cycles. The blood of the Peoples of the Land returned to the land. The White Man carried on the cleansing that the Peoples of the Land had started with the murder of the Spirit of the Forest.

The White Man had never had to fear the Spirit of the Forest because the Nations’ peoples had fought Him and triumphed. And from that point forward, the White Man had never had to cut down the wood to build his houses and the White Man had never had to clear the land before sowing his fields.

The White Man had become the Master of the Land.

And the forest agonized.

PT 22/12/2009

Photo: Sagah Nah: La Confrerie des Tueurs de Monstres, Tome 2, Francois Lapierre, Editions Soleil, 2004.

Arianna’s String

A seasoned traveler sets off on a latest voyage across the world, looking for adventure and novelty. Along the way, the traveler comes across a particular string. On previous voyages the traveler has crossed paths with many strings and has learned to be weary, for many of these strings lead to dead ends. In much younger days, the traveler, just an apprentice explorer brimming with youthful enthusiasm, had stumbled upon a common string, the kind that is found all over, and followed it. Several leagues beyond the heartland of the kingdom, the string had unexpectedly unraveled stranding the novice, lost, alone in a foreign realm.

Thus the traveler is immediately struck by this particular string for it is unlike any other. During his life the traveler has encountered many strings as thick as this one, composed of unique elements giving them a signature texture. But this one strikes the traveler. The word “Arianna” is etched, painted, burned, and scarred into it, in more languages than the traveler has learned in many years of vagabondage.

Every initiate in the Guild of Worldwalkers learns early on to perceive the strings that are woven into and around the world, natural phenomena that the untrained eye can not perceive without the discipline of a creative mind. Before initiates undertake the rites of passage to novicehood and are allowed to navigate along their first of string on their own, they are taught of the famous Calypso strings, dangerous and tempting filament strands that have generally led their handlers to madness, death or eternal damnation.

Indeed, all travelers follow the precepts of the errant sophist who warns all those who would follow him to be weary of strings, especially strings of power such as the strings of Calypso. “Relish in the complimentary experiences that nature feeds the soul, challenge the path and leave the string to go where no other has gone before, seek your own path to find the balance within yourself,” are guiding words that initiates follow to the letter as if it were law and leads the vast majority of guild members to avoid strings as they mature.

Despite the best of judgments forged by hard lessons and lineal knowledge, this traveler marvels, awestruck and mesmerized, at a string such as none ever reported by Guild members. The precepts, almost audible, ring in the travelers’ ears as temptation for great personal growth through unique experience is tempered by collective judgment, a detailed anthology of accounts recounted and documented by all Worldwalkers.

The patterns in this string disquietingly remind me of the Calypso strings, the only other strings ever reported to carry such distinguishing features, says the traveler, not realizing that the words have been spoken aloud. Yes, indeed, this string could be problematic, with such glyphs etched into it… Maybe a warning to the true nature of the power it contains. Yet this could also be an entirely new species altogether…

This situation imposes a difficult choice on the traveler. On the one hand, valid experience counsels to avoid such strings and on the other hand, convincing stimuli to grab impose themselves upon the traveler, urging to follow curiosity and abandon the beaten path… So my existence culminates to this moment, this place, the latest event horizon that annihilates the centre and leaves the consequences of my decision up to the mercy of the demiurge’s whims. Cruel be the Gods, curses the traveler, perplexed by the quarrel that rages within, where is Pythia when you need her!

After several moments of contemplation, overwhelmed with temptation and desire, the wisdom of Ages yields to curiosity and the traveler is compelled to pick up the string. At the first hint of contact, the traveler is struck, paralyzed but for an instant, and then, senses slowly recovering from the shock, finds them strange and alien, distorting sight and ambient sounds while stretching skin and bone.

The traveler sees not the immediate environment but glimpses fragments of an emerging puzzle covering the canvas of reality, phasing like apparitions come out from the gates of Hades or a trick of the Oneiroi. The voices of nature become muffled, distant, the final vibrations of a dying echo. Muscles tighten, resisting the pull on the travelers’ firm vessel, resisting the moment of panic, ephemeral, dissipating as the grand scheme is revealed.

I have found the Well of Quintessence! It must be the string that leads to the Alpha, the beginning of all things, and the Omega, the ultimate enlightenment. Such energies must be beyond the wherewithal of even the largest majority of the most senior Guildmasters that have taught our members. Were it not, this knowledge would surely be shared among our ranks and recorded in Pandora’s Journal. Am I to be the embodiment of the memory for the greatest discovery our Order has recorded since the Bandaloop Doctors’ lore from Taxila…?

Giddy from this exceptional feeling, the traveler does not hesitate to grab the string more firmly and to follow wherever it may lead. Whether what was shown in this vision is real or not, the road will be a step towards fulfilling the Worldwalkers’ mission, to discover the world and unite a diversity of experiences under new and more harmonious patterns.

For days, the traveler follows the string through forests and rivers, across chasms and lakes. On many a night, laying next to Arinna’s string, resting worn feet and aching legs by the wayside campfire, the traveler reads the stars and contemplates the distance traveled on the present journey. And as the stars pierce the Ether with their endless light, they reveal to the traveler that the distance is not as important as the singularity of each step, the uniqueness of each moment of every experience.

As Somnus pulls the traveler into sub-consciousness, Morpheus is quick to tease with common enticements, building on prevalent thoughts of Arianna, guised in blissful pleasures, lavish comforts, precious playthings for one’s homunculus. The traveler resists temptation, knowing that such phantasms are but shadows of what the vision has promised. Until the break of dawn, the traveler and Morpheus are engaged in a battle of wit, and so it will be on the morrow… Rest does not come easy.

Despite the accumulating fatigue, the traveler’s confidence does not waiver. What I have seen in this vision is too valuable to not make the effort to reach it. This could be the place… the place! Never before have I been privileged to gaze upon such a beautiful sight, a wonder of nature’s grandiose architecture, a heaven of serenity and pleasure, a miracle of Gaia…

On the road, the traveler salutes and passes other unwary and unconcerned journeymen and novices, some following a string of their own, as well as laymen and laywomen in rural hamlets and expanding villages, none noticing Arianna’s string looped around this travelers’ left arm. Polite words are exchanged, a few sentences of banter about the current voyage and best wishes for the road ahead.

Compared to other string-experiences, this one has kept a ward on the agents of Kronos who would have habituated the traveler’s body and mind to the string’s effects by now. The string continues emit a diffuse electrical current jumping along the traveler’s being and generates a comfortable understanding that the hand that carries Arianna’s string has been chosen, selected out of the whole of humanity, to take on a great responsibility and achieve great enlightenment, an opportunity for unprecedented personal development, guided hopefully by the Guild’s principles, harnessed as the foundation for an era of non-utilitarian humanist collective growth.

I have handled a number of strings in the past, even glimpsed a Calypso string many seasons ago. Those experiences have all enriched Pandora’s Journal and contributed to my enlightenment in their own ways. Is it not a conspiracy designed by the Fates, now, to guide me along this path, a natural and fortuitous culmination, pointing to a new phase, no an era, of renewed growth? Am I prostituting myself, delusional insecurity forcing me towards this unlikely partner which ….

The traveler’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted, shattered as he comes to stand at the top of the crest of a hillock lost among a sea of green and rolling hills, bathed in the rusting light of a waning sun, looking down into the valley. Long shadows dance eerily as the wind bites into the foliage of the nearby woods cloaking the hills. But the traveler registers none of that. Standing still, whipped by the dusking gust, the traveler holds tightly to the string, staring ahead.

In the valley below, walls of a myriad of wondrous materials form a geometrical singularity of astonishing complexity – a labyrinth! Everybody in the kingdom is well aware that they are exceptional places to commune with oneself as well as to discover the primary components of reality and the universe. At first, the traveler believes that the breath of Zeus breaks the darkness, northern lights dancing all above the labyrinth grounds…

No! These are not the lights of the frozen empire but a mesh of strings, criss-crossing and converging at the centre of this labyrinth. Truly, I am blessed witness to one of Nature’s miracles! A nexus, a hub of strings this labyrinth must be, a place of great power and revelation indeed, never before described in our Journals, in emblazoned tales of drunkenness, or in the legend lore of ancient and recent civilizations! Confidence surges in the traveler, now trotting downhill with a steady if not jovially bouncing pace…

By nightfall, the traveler has reached the gates of the maze that sprawls beyond the horizon. A moonless night. A cold night. As wondrous as they might have seemed from the first wild glimmers the traveler caught off them, the walls of the labyrinth are confining in their majesty, commanding in their strength. A pair of tall marble guardians stands vigil, pulsing with the luminescence from the array of ley lines above, daunting, eyeing incomers with their cold immutable stares, warning with wordless persistence that the way forward is fraught with peril, that this place is a sanctuary of the unknown, a shrine of mysteries and thus should be respected as such. Shrinking with the weight of humility, the combined mass of the marble twins virtually comparable to Atlas’ charge, the traveler breaches the arch, promptly regaining stature and composure.

The cold darkness envelops the traveler like a wet skin exposed to bitter wind. But the traveler’s resolve is greater than the might of the combined elements, beyond reach of those fleeting aches. Concentration does not fail – setting signs, marking the path, recording landmarks and plotting the disappearing constellations in the heavens, all the while treading lightly, avoiding traps and pitfalls. Moving deeper into the bowels of the maze at a steady pace, the traveler’s determination is as firm as the grip on Arianna’s string…

Progressively, thick clouds roll into the valley, deepening Nyx’s shroud, obliterating the solemn stars dotting the heavens as well as the weave of strings, all luminescence gone. The traveler’s internal clock says that Eos should have long ago broken cold despair with warming rays of hope. The labyrinth must be beyond even the Gods…

As the traveler rounds a bend in the path, a foot catches a loose stone awkwardly set shifting cobble work. Losing footing and balance all at once, gravity takes over the traveler’s body and the ground rushes up to greet an already abused body, repeatedly pounding skin and bones as the hammered flesh tumbles down the ditch dug out by the side of the road, hidden in the darkness. Bruised and dazed, the traveler stands, soaked from the waste in the sewer…

The string! I have lost the string, the traveler howls deep inside himself. The darkness is now oppressive and stifling, the walls too colossal to contemplate, the cold night deadly… Shock fills the traveler’s soul – confined, coffined, trapped without the string, swallowed by a wonderful warren of woes. The labyrinth is alive with the cries of creatures unknown this night, and they call to the traveler. Heart seized by fear, sweat beads along the traveler’s brow as frantic attempts are made to recapture the string from the suffocating darkness that mischievously denies it. The traveler is overwhelmed by the events that led to this moment, this place. The string is my only way out…

A combination of exhaustion, fatalistic abandonment and rational processes force the traveler to replay the latest events… A fall! To the right, an inclination in the terrain could very well lead back to the string! Hope, for the string, for the reward at the end of the string floods torn and bleeding flesh, cleansing it of inertia and imbuing it with revived motion and energy.

The climb is arduous, the ground slippery from earlier rain soaking the soil, and the brambles of thorny thickets tear at the tattered rags that remain on traveler’s back. One foot forward. Another. Plowing mud but going nowhere, the travelers’ resolve erodes as doubt drains what little strength remains… I am truly lost if I do not find the string… I could die here! I have mocked the Gods, and I am being punished for my arrogance. Here my body and soul could remain for eternity…

So why are we here?

The collective immortal dead call to the traveler from within, reawakened by his thoughts of a mortal end, recalled to consciousness by desperation. Immediate dissonance reverberates deep in the traveler’s being.

“I have come to see and be with the place at the end of Arianna’s string...”

But what did you see, the undead petition?

“I saw what I imagine to be the most comfortable place in this world… “

Could Eris be playing tricks on your mind?

“I do not surrender to the Gods, I am master of my destiny!”

Could your imagination be distorting your senses?

“Well…” Another layer of fear spreads to choke the traveler’s will.

“The sun has been particularly strong these past fortnights and the chill piercing… I did have a very light meal and have been walking for several days… The water I have been drinking has come from unkempt wells and abandoned watersheds… Maybe I am exhausted… Maybe I am starved… Maybe I am poisoned… Maybe I am sick… Maybe I am losing my mind… Maybe I should have turned back…”

“Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have trusted my first instinct to avoid string – I know where they lead usually. Maybe I should have turned back earlier. Maybe I am the architect of my own demise and I will remain in this place, a victim of Arianna…”

At last, the ground levels and bloody and mud-encrusted fingernails bite hard icy cobble rock. A grandiose pain, sharp as the highest notes emitted by the young thespians in the Agora, welcome like a lost lover. The string… where is the string? The vision’s inspiration remains but it fades, but a speck on the horizon now that the eyes strain to recognize. Tearing through the disquieting cacophony of the night and the discordant machinations in the traveler’s head, a shrill and sickening moan rises not far beyond the walls ahead…

Could this be the labyrinth? The labyrinth? Oh surely not, surely the fabled labyrinth is just that, a myth born by our forebears as lessons and guidance for the harsh life that now slowly seeps from me. The creature, the dreadnaught, the jabberwocky cannot be real… this cannot be the end… Instinct propels flailing arms and legs, a mad desperate hunt for one last chance before the end to look upon the ultimate treasure.

The invisible chorus quiets as the growls and rumbles grow and engulf the traveler. The Minotaur surely approaches, is upon me, and I but have an instant to savor what is and all that has been…

A sickening calm fills the traveler as the realizations that Moira’s cruel game must so end. Indeed, Arianna’s string must be a string of power, similar but more potent than the Calypso species, more dangerous. This is the traveler’s end, to discover what could never be revealed, to experience in solitude the end and the beginning, simultaneously finding ultimate finality. It is clear to the traveler that this journey could not have ended any other way...

A finger connects with the alien materials of the string. The string! I found the string! Energy courses through the traveler’s body and soul, revitalizing senses, rejuvenating resolve and regenerating physical strength…

And then everything was quiet…

20/02/2009/PT