taotiger - Uroboros Dreaming

Three white seabirds flying in formation above the tree line, across this small patch of mountain sanctuary before heading downhill and over the ocean before them. The one in the centre dipping it’s wings in greeting, and then just as quickly as they arrived, gone. A tall, lean figure, pausing awhile to accept such a message - a streaking smudge from the same direction gathers into a dark form, crow following maybe chasing, as if slung by an identical arm, tracing the path of the others. This time, no acknowledgement of the one watching, earthbound.

Turning to go, a shivery gust approaches from the west. Something in the winds urges the flight to cover - not exactly menacing, but not comforting either. A hint of the unusual, at least, suggests the path taken, back through the high craggy pass, past the rippling potato almost ready to harvest, and along the gravelled trail to the steps leading up to…

…not yet settled, having only been lodging here a short time now, there is much not known about this new terrain. The fire burns at the entrance, however even the wind direction is new, snaking smoke up along the cliffs above before curling into dissolving clouds any which way. Or this is how it seems - there is some pattern to the air current here, but for now it brings all types of signals difficult to make out - not at all like the old hut in the primordial midst is such a hilltop-crowning blustery cavern home.

Making a way upwards to the safety of a warm hearth, again it feels as though over the shoulder there is something to be guarded against. Probably nothing. Just the passing of another shadow beyond the trees, perceived yet unseen, half remembered and partly imagined. Atop the path at the cave entrance, a welcome sight greets somewhat tremulous eyes - firewood gathered is added to the heap and, still shouldering the weight, easing down onto the furs around the fire-pit, there is little to do but drink in the freshwater views of the jungle expanse surrounding the natural enclave below, thankful to find rest at last in the sundowning of a tiring day.

Already, a pot sits bubbling on the warmth, and a voice calls through the heat-haze, “There’s enough for two days on the fire, so it’s a way to go. Shouldn’t be too long, though…”, followed by a subdued, “…any luck?” Well, it’s not as though there were ever any shortage of materials, but for the past few days the search had been for a hinge, to allow the finishing of a door to the bay lookout. “Yeah, some…” because today, after walking all morning around the coastline, was found a bamboo grove, sections of stalks providing ample cuts for the job.

So dinner came and went, and the next day this door being completed and the draughts caulked, sleeping bench reinforced and finding food-stocks healthy, it is decided to rest a few days before venturing down the mountain, to check how the new tenant of the old hut is doing.

Waiting, too, for this very night of the full moon, the depths of the cave system call for a mystery to be explored - it is clear that the question of the previous occupant must be answered before a truly peaceful night can be slept. Little is known about the old man of the cave, other than he had helped when fever struck in the old cottage, with gentle encouraging words and nourishing soups, fended off wild boars when there had been danger after a fall years ago, and that the nearest village held him to be a shaman of greatly developed powers. Although paths in this jungle inevitably cross, few words had been exchanged, however as much as this is known: a kind man, appearing just in time to save life, and vanishing soon after, fearless and self-sufficient, used to live in this cave. Where is he now? Only a few tools and rough bedding remained when this natural shelter was rediscovered…

the train… Bollywood films from the 60’s… in the local op-shops, my boyfriends to-ing and fro-ing… a really fantastic Baccarach cover on the back of that seven… our friends from the European Union… through the windscreen of the Volkswagon, take me to my lover… sounds a lot like a kazoo, you can only take a little bit... stepped outside the three-chord regime… we heard Carwash… at the Dandenong Salvo’s they segregate the authors… exploitation labels… quality wax… the San Francisco beat movement… big brother, we’re watching you…

…what was that! Too often lately, streams of unintelligible dialogue have been impinging themselves upon this unwary mind with absolute clarity - as if a conversation from a far away land is heard, talking of strange phenomena in a language which is like the one known well, but so very different. Head still reverberating with foreign phrasings as the world resumes it’s ordinary dimensions, it isn’t so easy to remember where, even when this is all happening. Must rest some more, then… that’s right, then to exploring the darkness below for any trace of the old man.

Setting off now, with torch lit, back away from the moonlight and fire, down into the winding paths converging and splitting interminably deeper and colder. Forest noises recede, leaving measured footsteps and crackling flames in the auditory wake, shapes flit past on the walls - drawings from long ago, blackened by successive generations of travellers along these dusty paths. The trick to remembering the way out is to recall the turns taken, of course, five, six, seven…

After walking this way for some time, an unusual breeze wafts past. Shouldn’t be here, so far from the crowded night, but then why is anything here at all - was it imagined? Still further, and the sound of water - surely not - some distance away. At a forking junction, listening for the faint trickle, there’s no doubt that along the left path there’s the noise of a stream…

Edging forward cautiously, it seems as though some light is penetrating the depths - yes, brighter with each step - until the torch can be extinguished, and as this corner is rounded and the trickling sound has become a flowing, a rushing, a sight greets the eyes with nebulous though unmistakable familiarity. A great cavernous room, moonlight entering through an opening far above, glinting from crystalline walls magnifying the brightness, illuminating a stream flowing along the floor, from one end to the other. And as sight adjusts to the natural lighting, a shape comes into focus over the stream, indeed an underground river. Crouched sitting, it appears human, but without a movement could be rocks only.

Calling out to the inert form, “Hello! Can you hear me?” 
A reply returns, “Yes, but have you anything to say… ?”
It takes some time to register that the one opposite has spoken at all, and then even longer to process what has been said. Eventually, hesitantly venturing to respond, “Are you… do you… who are you?”
In low, sombre tones, “this is not a question to be undertaken lightly, so let us just say for now that there is much to be told of who I am, but this is neither who I have been, nor what it is that you see before you…”
“Do you have a name, then?”
“Call this body Bukem, if it must be,” replies the rock-still man, for a man indeed it appears to be in the dim light, wrapped in skins and sitting cross-legged.
Questioning further, it occurs to ask, “How long have you been here?”
But the answer, as if challenging to plumb the distance between, across the crashing river, calls back, “It has always been thus, and will remain so for as long as one becomes two. Over and over, the two meet here and again become the one…”, followed by a muted utterance, something like, “…as it ever was …will be …and forever! Now be gone - come again when the moon is full and it will begin.”

And as these words are spoken, a startling noise issues from the corridor behind, as a clashing of stones. Glancing round, seeing nothing in the shadows, suddenly, the sound of the water is amplified, and looking back to where he had been, there’s no trace. He has gone!

Crouching, holding the torch between the knees and striking flint the vast cavern at once writhes with flickering shapes. The river in the centre being over ten paces broad, and with no other entrance on this side, there is no reason to linger, so back along the corridors, wondering about the encounter with the old man below. Four turns, five - making sure the route stays in memory for future trips, wending the way back to the surface there is a vast silence, instilled within by the cryptic words of the sitting figure, muffled footsteps and the hissing of the torch.

Back at the upper regions there is a moment to adjust to the warm night air and looking around at the stars, feeling the glow of the fire still radiating heat from the coals, it could even be that what transpired below was a dream. But no, the phrase continues to echo, “…and forever!” What does it mean? And a whole moon before it might be explained - who could wait that long!

Anyhow, safe now from the creatures made timid by the fire, settling down for the evening to contemplate what had happened, and comforted by the thought that it would be revealed soon enough, it hardly registers over the tumult of concepts the slight, lilting query from the other side of the cave entrance, “How did you go, then - find anything down there?”
“Well, thought there was something, maybe a water-source that could be used to supplement the meagre trickle up here in drought times. Nothing much.” But this would not do, for the one who shares heart and home must also be given keys to the mind. Perhaps later, details of this secret meeting can be shared, when the nature of the old man becomes clearer. Now, it is time to relax, and sleep.

The succeeding day, and the few after that, are spent gathering stores of vegetable and grain, and manufacturing storage containers to guard against weevils and rodents. Also preparations are made for the trip down the mountain to see how the young resident of the isolated hut is faring. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that the conditions of this dangerous lodging were experienced first-hand, and anything to help is a step in the direction of independence from the village on the coast below. For once having made this choice, no-one from down there would assist - it’s up to those few who can identify with his plight. And not for the sake of rebellion alone, but as contributing towards the freedom to pursue a life apart from the subtle sanctions of the herd. A type of specialisation, viewed from the perspective of one who has escaped the rigid morality of village life and gossip as a precious endeavour towards wholeness.

After the bags are packed and provisions secured, heading along the track through the broad area protected by rock on all sides and walking between the great walls separating the inside compound from the wilds outside, an atmosphere of trepidation and excitement pervades this pair trekking out to face the unknown. Having lived over a hundred moons alone in the small exposed hut, there isn’t really so much to fear, but lately stirrings of unease emanated from the dense forest. As though something new has arrived, the sounds around have changed…

It takes most of the day to reach the destination, and since sleeping in the open is too dangerous, a fast pace is set. Threading in and out of the dense undergrowth, crossing small streams and sliding down muddy slopes, the day wears on, the chirping of insects and nattering of small animals interrupting the unbroken background hum of the jungle soundscape.

As the sun begins to pour forth golden evening rays, a faint wafting smoky fragrance emerges, indicating proximity to the habitation sought. Redoubling effort, the terrain becoming familiar now, the end of the journey is within reach. Up one more rise, and over the top the hut comes into view - smoke curling from the stone chimney, the surrounding clearing a welcome relief from the confinement of the suffocating vegetation all around.

From behind, “You go first…” And it did seem appropriate, coming back to what had been home for so long. Until Droufadni had escaped the village, seeking out the company of a likeminded other, when a more spacious, better equipped home was needed, this had been life and more for so long.

A knock on the door… “Anyone here?”
From inside issues a hoarse whisper, “Who… at last, please come in.” And the door swings inwards revealing a dim, untidy room, a few meagre leaves burning in the fireplace, with belongings strewn all about the small chamber. Judging by the general disrepair and untidiness, it appears the contorted figure on the bed has been no more than surviving here for some time. Eyes focussing in the dim light, a countenance wracked with pain can now be discerned, eliciting the question, “You sick - what’s wrong?”
With much effort, the strained response comes, “Fever. Been seeing all sorts of weird things these past few days… devils... golden castles… help me, please!”
“You’re alright. There’ll be wood and herbs gathered by nightfall and before long you’ll be well again,” but he is pretty far gone, and these words are as much hope as truth.

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