taotiger - Uroboros Dreaming

Many winters have passed living in the cave. With the alternation of seasons, elemental conditions have been adapted to, ensuring an abundant supply of nourishing foods and other necessities throughout the colder times. Presently, however, soon after the passing of the bleakest days midseason, it is found that stores of animal fats, so important for cooking meals daily, are greatly depleted. Only hunting for clothing and to supplement vegetable meals during winter, a few kills each year are generally adequate for survival.

Now, again it has become imperative to take life. Covering exposed skin with furs, setting out in the morning, breath clouding ahead with each exhalation, the first steps toward the inevitable slaughter are taken. Turning uphill from the pass at the far end of the frosted garden area, animal tracks are discovered along well-travelled runs close to the cave.

Examining branches for fur and noting freshness of broken groundcover to determine the best course, before long the sun is higher, yet still the air is icy, frost melting and dripping from the leaves all around. The resultant sound is an eerie random ploshing, ground squelching underfoot a counterpoint to the staccato rhapsody of the earthbound droplets. Breathing hard, a trail recently traversed is noticed.

Further, and the signs multiply, as though many animals, probably boars, had passed by only this morning. Labouring upwards along the floor of a steep craggy-sided gorge, hoof prints in the mud become clearly visible. Higher, the terrain becoming densely foliated here, the trails disperse underneath thickets of gnarled, twisted bushes. Having to circumambulate the area to pick up the tracks on the other side of the impenetrable barrier, time is lost, and the winter sun, low even at its zenith, exudes a growing heat, warming the forest around and causing the passage to become tiring. Once more, evidence of recent activity is found. Following a rough path formed by the passing of many animals over time, a clearing is reached, a muddy wallow in the middle and at the far end what seems to be the opening of a low shelter beneath ferny growth. Snorting and rustling sound from within the bushes.

Unsheathing the knife, stalking slowly across the clear ground, the disturbance ahead grows louder, indicating the presence of at least one animal. Then, rushing through the opening in the ferns comes a huge boar, a male with yellowed tusks, throwing its head sideways at the sight of an intruder, grunting aggressively and stopping to appraise the situation.

Waiting for the beast to make the first move, the standoff as both parties harness adrenaline for attack or flight seems to last minutes. Manipulating the blade so the edge rests in the palm, slowly raising the arm, the boar charges forward, covering half the distance with an opening bound. A whiplike motion flings the heavy knife through the intervening air, slicing into the area between the eyes and with a descending squeal the bulk crashes to the forest floor, dead.

Lashing the inert beast to a felled sapling, the mid-afternoon journey home begins, along the same route taken to track the animal. Walking through the gorge again, the going easier heading downhill, a stirring atop the cliff awakens the memory of a darkness that has been felt coming from the jungle in past times. A distinct presence is sensed much of the way back, keeping pace with this hunter returning to the cave, tarnishing the triumphant glow of success with increasing fear. To the fatigued consciousness come the words, a constant undercurrent since first divined, surfacing in periods of great need, “Absque Spiritus Nihil,” and a feeling of warmth pervades the area around the heart.

Plunging downwards in a frantic attempt to outrun the unseen pursuer, the mind somewhat revived yet the body hopelessly tired, the weight of the huge boar dragging behind grows with each step. The thought arises that to return home empty-handed is better than to not return at all, but the momentum that has carried the expedition this far urges further progress, until now the contours of the forest become familiar in the waning light.

The final push towards the security of the fireside is made running, struggling with the load. As the entrance to the garden haven is reached, from behind issues a low growl, inhuman and menacing. Propelled forward by terror, breath short and legs heavy, a dreamlike sensation is felt, of trying to escape but going nowhere, of stone legs in quicksand.

Up the path to the cave’s mouth just as night falls, safety is reached without the strength left even to greet Droufadni. Seeing the agitation, and watching the exhausted figure collapse to the floor, she drags the animal carcass to the back of the chamber, and holds the rattled man until eventually he becomes calmer, regaining control over faculties severely depleted by prolonged exposure to such a terrifying ordeal.

Emerging from the state of shock, looking around the firelit cave, the gaze fixes on an element overlooked prior to embarking on the hunt. Voice wavering and subdued, the remark is spoken casually, but with conviction, “Next time, that should be taken along,” pointing at the shelf, on which the talismanic necklace lies, so carelessly left behind that morning.

Cutting up and preserving the meat from the animal takes a few days, during which little is spoken of the flight from the beast. There is no immediate need to alter routines to accommodate the re-emergence of the threatening jungle presence, only to ensure that in future times, the necklace is carried by anyone venturing into the woods. Even close to home, the danger is great. Years of complacency yield now to a profound vigilance, recognition that life together up here on the mountain is precarious - if one falls, both fall.

Work dividing the boar completed, there is time for rest. Preparing the pipe with care, using the weed gathered the previous summer, it is suggested that a night of celebration be held in the cave, “Success in the hunt, escape from the beast out there - this cold season needs a little spark to call forth the spring - it’s time to add some colour to the grey days.”
Droufadni, excited about the proposition, offers, “Yes, let’s bring out the drum, smoke some of the mixture Bukem gave you last year, and paint some of our own story onto the cave wall. It’ll be fun!”

So, digging around the shelves for the soft multi-hued stones collected for just this purpose, gathering enough wood to keep the fire burning for days to come, and getting food ready to cook over the coming period of activity, plans are made for the festive interval.

Beginning with a full, nourishing meal, the evening stretches out ahead, heralded by a drum-beat wherein the noises from outside the cave are muted, drowned away by the deep rhythmic sound of the hand drum. Taking turns to play, the other moves in organic gyration, slowly this early in the night, sometimes talking or emitting melodic chants intertwining with the rise and fall of the drumming, or by turn becoming lost in a personal world of sound and motion, flowing between the beats, blissfully entranced by the music.

As Droufadni strikes the skin over and over, the pipe is charged with a concoction of fine powder, said by Bukem to enhance the experience of any celebration, reportedly distilled from a number of plants ultimately poisonous when used alone, but together… The caution had been issued when the substance was given, that the effect would last a number of hours, during which time the nature of reality would be clearer, and yet more complex, than usual. Other instructions were also passed on, and these are relayed to Droufadni as the smoking-pipe is filled.

With a burning twig the pipe is lit, crackling and glowing, issuing a dense, blue smoke, filling lungs and air with a pungent, bitter cloud. Holding breath to strengthen the effect, after a few seconds a release of the haze ends with a repeated hacking cough. Managing finally to inhale freely, saying, “Yeah, fun…” meanwhile readying the pipe for another round. Droufadni accepts the offering, as uncomfortable as it would inevitably be, and lights it herself, drawing deeply the odorous blend.

Not long afterwards, finding nothing is happening, a second pipe is smoked by each, drumming continuing for a while, until the percussive sound, echoing through the chamber, seems to leave an after-wave with every beat. Looking at each other in wonder, Droufadni is first to comment on the auditory anomaly, rising smoothly and saying, “Amazing… how does it make that double noise…?” 
“No idea, but it’s getting easier to play, and each single beat has a path of it’s own, like a school of fish, swimming around together. All fish, and yet every one different…”

Soon the variation of normal perception becomes pronounced in other areas. The cave walls bend in and out, moving patterns appear in the sheet of falling rain outside, and each feels the voice of the other is a music from faraway… Words blend with the firelight, sending showering rays of spoken flame upwards. Shadows on the rock form changing displays of coloured scenes - giant reptiles looming overhead now becoming landscapes of mesmerising beauty, birds flickering in and out of shimmering existence transforming into revolving wheels of splintered ice.

At some point in the night, as the subjectiverse continues to dissolve and re-form in dazzling fickle grandeur, painting stones are ground with water and for hours, the pair draw shapes of visionary spectacle on the walls all around. Breaking away from the creation of a magnificent ochre and charcoal boar surrounded by light-greenish chalky brown-trunked trees, a terrible fear strikes the painter, but this passes and he goes back to the work. Employing more charcoal to depict a great dark mass above the existing drawing, a semblance of the inner turmoil is projected onto the side of the cavern, exorcising the dormant panic within.

Pulsating rhythm surrounds the pair, who exchange the instrument for paints every so often, painting the sound and drumming to the emergence of beautiful varied shapes. Held together by the shared external stimuli, each floats on in a private world transformed into marvellous onrushing expression of the deepest fantasy material from within, crystallised as palpable waking manifest reality, though dreamlike in strangeness of structure. Revelation of the truest levels of universal cosmic nature blend congruously with characters from long-ago heard children’s tales… Now the intuition of ultimate truth as white light illuminating from inside a translucent sphere of molten stone spurting brilliant plumes of living matter through a fine lattice of undulating silken thread, promoting a feeling of exquisite blissful knowingness - now the vision of rain curling into the entrance, rearing up a torso of integrated droplets and with watery orange arms beckoning the inhabitants, liquid mouth calling to the fire, “Come. We can be friends…”

Dim light of the early dawn uncovers, with increasing definition of the surroundings, a cave virtually covered in painted scenes of widely divergent type - geometric patterns juxtaposed against pictures of wavering ferns, small winged people flitting around a large central mandala comprising representations of elemental and articulated symbols and forms. Lying beneath this panoramic display the couple, exhausted but elated, lie in each others embrace, quietly relaxed listening to hearts beating out the anthem of a new day.

Later, after resting this way awhile, spiced drink is heated over the fire, replenishing fluids lost during hours of intense activity. A slow pipe is smoked. Birdcalls in the misty jungle outside signal another fresh beginning.

Wandering together down the passageway and through the door to the cliff-top ledge, feeling peacefully contented, Droufadni ventures, “Living here for sixteen-odd years, all the troubles of the village life play out below. With just the clouds for company, we’re happier than ever. How could we have known the delights of a quiet, simple life if we hadn’t escaped the tribe?”
On the precipice, coastline stretching far away into the distance, responding, “It’s true. For all the dubious benefits of the rule of Law, never was the outbreak of violence at all distant in the village - if not a squabble over sharing communal food, then commonplace domestic disturbance or some other dispute was always raging. It’s a blessing to have adequate space to allow the whole being to develop unimpeded, in every direction.”

Looking out at the mountains ranging inland, dense thunderheads roll slowly onwards, pouring rains and renewal into the vast, silent jungle. From this height, the giant storm swells breaking on the beaches appear as graceful fanning arcs, at the end of their journey issuing thanks to the waiting shore, grateful to be meeting the countless sands before flowing out again to merge with themselves as endless, calm ocean.

Being mostly protected from the approaching downpour here, yet exposed to cold winds, the couple stay huddled close. Once more, Droufadni speaks first, “You know, what Bukem teaches - what you’ve been passing on to me - makes time pass slowly, and finding everything not as solid as we used to believe, but instead a world in part determined by our own creating it, just being alive is more exciting and fulfilling than ever.” Barely able to contain laughter, she adds, “Or should I say, becoming alive..?”
“Yes Droufadni, it is lucky. Not one in ten thousand has a mentor such as Bukem. What he professes is a higher truth, only learned by listening to one trained in these ways, and so the knowledge has been handed down from person to person, built upon in each generation and transmitted, enriched, again. He doesn’t know for how long this has happened, only that the signs, which he will not speak of directly, point to many, many consecutive…”

how I explained that the Tardis was… chameleon circuit, which had malfunctioned… would be mystified by such a sixties icon… providing the narrative stream there… they’ve just brought out volume 3, as well… on the internet, and now… the amiable psychopath Baben, the Berzerker… the actual Luddites in British history… it actually managed to crush and kill one of the… revelling in his transformation into intergalactic glutton… at the BBC, track… insight into the construction process…

“What is it? Why did you stop?”
“The voices are back. It’s been so long, but just as it used to, the inane babble takes over control, and nothing else registers. So annoying!”
“Well,” says Droufadni, “you’ll have to talk it over with Bukem.”
“…and what’s a bloody Tardis, anyway? Or a B-B-C…?”
“Don’t worry about it dear. He’ll sort it out.”

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