taotiger - Uroboros Dreaming

Waiting for the still figure on the opposite bank to speak, there is an opportunity to look around the cave - vertical rock formations like flowing water or sand hang from the ceiling of the chamber and erupt from the floor, meeting in places to form columns of apparently liquid stone. The faint moonlight entering the gap at the apex of the roof casts a pallid glow over the surrounding walls, providing just enough light to make out the shapes of hulking rocky masses littering the ground, reflected by thousands of tiny crystals embedded in the walls, shining like stars all around.

Caught up in the visual magnificence of the chamber, Bukem’s voice has been speaking over the splashing of the river for some time before it is recognised, saying, “…on it is of great antiquity, spelling out the wisdom of a distant, highly developed people. Like you I am acquainted with the Laws of the Syzyg, yet these few engraved precepts reveal more, providing the path along which man has travelled for countless millennia, unveiling the hidden nature of the cosmos along the way. It is not for everyone to behold the ends of the earth, but having separated yourself from the tribe and undergone the purification of the long forest retreat, it is my reckoning that you are ready. Let me ask, having spent this last period in attention training, are you prepared for whatever may come?”
“Well, what comes, will be. How can what must be, be avoided…”
Laughing, he says, “Very well, but know now that there is no returning once the words have been spoken.”
“Sure, why not...”

A lull in the conversation follows. Then, just as the silence is becoming unbearable, while looking directly over the river at old Bukem, serene and detached as he always is, a powerful blow from nowhere launches this seated figure backwards. Like being hit in the chest the pressure, centred at the region of the heart, creates a temporary loss of breath, at which exact moment a light of the brightest magnificent white shines throughout the cavern. All around, the rock structures dissolve into wave after wave of pulsing splendour and, realising the light is somehow emanating from within this body and trying to call out for help, Bukem can be seen floating unflustered, also in the whiteness which surrounds both and engulfs everything else.

Time collapses and, remaining suspended thus for an indefinite period, a booming voice announces, coming at once from all directions, “Absque Spiritus Nihil!” These words resonating through every living fibre, gradually the brilliant illumination subsides, leaving on the bank a dazed and shaken, huddled form. Looking to where the old man had been, finding him sitting tranquilly as always, just these words escape, “What… was… that…?”
Bukem’s answer follows the waking mind into a hazy unconsciousness, “Remember where the spirit touched you, and what you have heard. These words of power will be with you always, guarding you from all evils. Meditate upon these deeply, never allowing them to leave you. Now sleep…”

Next morning on the surface at the mouth of the cave, “…and then, nothing until finding sunlight streaming through the hole in the cavern and realising you would be worried, running back along the pathway home. Droufadni, this was no ordinary visit to the old man. Something happened, and these words heard in the amazing vision are as vivid as they were then: ‘Absque Spiritus Nihil.’ Syzyg’s prohibitions and allowances have nothing to do with the ultimate mysteries, a taste of which was revealed last night. At once as the bright light hit, all questions ever formulated were answered, and there is nothing more to know. Pinch this arm to give some reassurance this is not all some dream… Ow!”
“You asked for it - we’re both as awake as ever.” chuckled Droufadni.
“Or more so. Something’s changed - there are no longer any… edges. It’s the best way to describe it. Nothing is divided from anything else. And also an underlying fluidity common to all phenomena is manifesting as a kind of spontaneity, and contentment. Such as when this hand is raised - no planning goes into it, not even the idea of raising the hand, or the intention to speak the sentence about all this - it’s just flowing naturally.”
“Well, you flow around here for a while, you’ll need the rest after all that. I’m off to pick some fresh greens for lunch. I’ll be back soon.”

Over the few days taken to recover, the rest of the cryptic writing on the container is decoded. The work of reading it has become easier, with the sentences found to have their roots in a dialect not unlike that of the tribe, but with an outmoded context, simple to penetrate once the feel for the language has developed. It appears to be a condensed formula for comprehending the creation of life, presumably so that such a process could be observed on a smaller scale than all of nature, and the boundaries between the greater and the lesser aspects of existence would be overcome, displaying to the observer the great convergence of multifarious differences as in fact a completeness, or wholeness. That it could be replicated on a small scale, and the potency and perfection of the cosmos controlled or channelled on a human scale is hinted at, but the primary relation of disparate elements to each other as an evolving unity is clearly expressed. The remainder of the text goes something like:

"Its strength is complete if it be turned into (or toward) earth."

"Separate the earth from the fire, the subtle from the dense, gently, and with great ingenuity."

"It ascends from the earth to the heaven, and descends again to the earth, and receives the power of the above and the below. Thus you will have the glory of the whole world. Therefore all darkness will flee from you."

"Here is the strong power of the whole strength; for it overcomes every subtle thing and penetrates every solid."

"Thus the world has been created."

"From here will come the marvellous adaptations, whose manner this is."

"So I am called Hermes Trimegistus, having the three parts of the philosophy of the whole world."

"What I have said about the operation of the sun is finished."

It has taken great effort to bring forth the correct wording of the ancient script. Much further contemplation is required to interpret it fully and so, each day after working the field and maintaining conditions suited to a sustainable, comfortable living, time is devoted to reading meaning into the passage, and interpreting the more obscure sections.

So the days and years continue. Each visit to meet Bukem is filled with speculation about the infinite composition of the universe, as it is seen thus, comprising every possibility existent somewhere, the logical corollary of it’s qualitative boundlessness. Also, subjectively, the forms constituting nature and human nature are constantly alluded to as being not merely linked, but dependent upon one another for the maintenance of a consistent reality. Greater feats of non-ordinary power are displayed, taxing personal resources considerably, but solidifying the initial intuition of an all-encompassing, fluid spirit quality masquerading as separate entities.

Peacefully the time passes, without intrusion from the wider community, until one night while talking about the crops and weather and such things over the fire, moon waxing almost full, four torches are seen entering the narrow pass at the far end of the compound and drawing closer…

As the small procession winds it’s way up to the mouth of the cave it is noticed that between them, lying on a crude wooden sled and being dragged along, is an elderly man, apparently too weak to walk. One of the party calls ahead, saying, “Ho! I am Nilanse, and we come from the village on the shore below. Long have we known that somewhere in these hills lives a shaman with the power to cure otherworldly disease, and we are here with a request. Are you the healer?”
Replying with caution, “No, but he is nearby. What sickness is this, that requires such intervention?”
Nilanse responds, “Graphor is an Elder from our tribe. Only days ago, he was able to fulfil his Council duties with full vigour. Then, while walking alongside the river he suddenly became unwell. He was found writhing in pain by the water, and since then his condition has only deteriorated. We suspect that a sorcerer from a neighbouring village has cast an evil curse upon him, and as only like may cure like in these cases we brought him here.”
“Leave him. Come back in two days, and in the meantime the shaman, as you call him, will attempt the healing.” The next meeting with Bukem being tomorrow night, the timing is fortunate. However, the old man in the cave below has never mentioned his ability to effect magical cures, and much depends on his success.
“Very well. We will return two days hence - our hopes are with you, for Graphor and those like him are the very lifeblood of our tribe. Take good care that he should recover. Farewell.”

After placing the sled by the fire, the group heads away, leaving the prostrate form and disappearing into the darkness. Soon, only the intermittent groans of the semi-conscious figure are left to indicate their visit. Droufadni remains awake, feeding warm broth to Graphor, yet his cries pierce the quiet night air making it impossible to rest.

Throughout the day, attention is given to providing a comfortable place for Graphor near the fire. More food is administered, and water, but he is unable to take much, and by nightfall his situation seems dire - he is moving around less, and although exclamations of pain have diminished, this is likely to be from waning energy rather than any improvement. Every so often, a convulsion wracks the feeble body, and in place of agonised outbursts now only subdued whimpers are heard.

Pulling the sled, the tunnels leading to the river-cavern are endless. The ground is rough, and the prone Graphor audibly winces with each further obstacle. Juggling the stretcher and torch, the river sounds ahead, and the last corner is breached.

Bukem sits, declaring, “You’ve brought another. He is unwell, so you want me to cure him.”
“Yes, he is from the village, an Elder thought to have attracted the wrath of a sorcerer.”
He laughs, scoffing, “Sorcerer! It is obvious from here, that unless the black magician transformed into a serpent and bit him, it was nothing of the kind. I have seen this sickness before, years ago. It is no more than snake bite. When you reach the surface, apply a poultice for poison extraction to the two puncture marks probably on his leg, keep him still and hope for the best.”
Looking for indications of a bite, two small marks are found on Graphor’s left ankle, “It is as you say. The fangs have left a reddening wound on the leg. It is time to leave, as it should be remedied soon.”
“Wait! Recall that during an earlier visit, you were told of the canister in the alcove. When the poultice has effected its cure, place it inside and leave it there for three moons. Then, take it out and bring it down here with you.”
“As you say. Until next moon!”
“Until then.”

Again through the interminable tunnels, pulling the groaning charge. Grappling with the sled, the uphill going is tough but soon, above in the moonlight, a compress of herbs is applied to the leg and pipe packed, solace is found in the smoke and conversation with Droufadni. She asks, “Is that all, no blinding lights in the sky and duelling magicians? What a letdown!”
“It is still life threatening. And the consequences are just the same - as long as he is cured, the villagers will be grateful. Otherwise…”
“Yes, he’d better recover. It’s one thing to be helping, but in their eyes, failure would be as murder.” The words send a shudder through both, this brush with the tribe a reminder of the harsh Council rule.

Waking early to find Graphor sleeping soundly, the morning work of fire kindling and preparation of the morning meal are well under way before Droufadni rises. Together, waiting for the sick Elder to show sign of his condition, sitting and pacing by turn, there is just this watching as the colour fades from the morning sky, and the sun’s warmth infuses the clearing below. As the first rays shine into the cave-mouth, Graphor moves at least, muttering unintelligibly and resettling his slight weight.

This vigil continues until early afternoon when, turning about in his sleep, Graphor calls out weakly, “Where am I? …water.” and upon carrying the water back from the cool rear of the cave, seeing him struggling to sit, relief is born in the hearts of those caring for him. 
Droufadni explains, “You are on the mountain now, because you fell ill. But it seems that you will be alright.”
He demands, “How long have I been here?”
“Only a couple of days, and Nilanse and the others will come to collect you later today. Rest now.”

Lying back again after drinking a little of the water, Graphor says, in quiet tones, “Thank you. The illness must have been grave to have been brought this far in these times. Braving the mountain of the beast is no small undertaking. You must tell me what it is that you require in return for helping me.”

Stepping forward to speak, handing the pipe to Graphor, the one request that occurs is immediately voiced, “All that we ask is to be left alone, to live peacefully.”
The Elder, startled at the proposition, coughs before saying, “If this is what you want, then you shall have it. And you, Droufadni - yes, I recognise you young lady - is this also your desire?”
“Yes Graphor. We already have everything we need.”
“I see. In that case, may I say that should you ever ask from us, so it shall be given. It is a great service you have rendered the village by saving me - a critical juncture is approaching at the next Council meeting, and that I will be able to serve the wills of Syzyg means potential discord amongst the Elders may yet be averted. I will rest now, until Nilanse returns, for there remains a weakness in me.” Expelling a plume of smoke and handing back the pipe, Graphor nods in thanks and closes his eyes.

Moving quietly around the inert figure, Droufadni tends the fire, and is about to throw the used compress into the flames but hesitates at a movement from beside her, a reaching out and the words hissed, “No. We need that intact.” 
Handing it over, glancing quizzically as the inscribed jar is sought and the poultice placed inside, she asks, “What are you doing?”
“Something Bukem said - there is a need to keep it awhile. He must have his reasons…”

Later, as nightfall nears, the small group of villagers appears again below, and are soon at the fireside. The pipe is passed, and all are cheerful at the news of Graphor’s recovery. Thanks are offered and loyalties declared, and after many toasts to all present the band departs, leaving only the memory of impending danger, relief, and friendship. Such is the hermit’s existence, filled with solitary pleasures, only to pass through brief times of shared happiness and communion with others before returning once more to the joys and tribulations of living alone.

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