Photo by Lora Ninova on Unsplash
Motion. Forward motion, and a rolling sensation, left-right-left. Incessant. It won’t stop.
I just want to be motionless.
The scent of fir needles and fear strikes my mind through my olfactory senses. My legs, like twin autonomous pistons, keep rising and falling under some other command than my own. My mind calls to them, receives a busy signal.
Maybe I’ll call again later.
I feel the cushion of the forest floor beneath my feet. How do I know it’s a forest? Then Maybe it’s Christmas time and I’m walking through Macy’s?
My eyes are open, no information is reaching my mind. I blink my eyelids rapidly and they tear profusely. I can feel the streams running from my eyes, down my cheeks. The darkness raises to a dim, twilight fog, then shapes, dark and vertical, distinguish themselves.
Forward, up-down, rolling left and right. I feel like I’m in the crow’s nest of a crappy, battered automatronic ship in a dilapidated and defunct amusement park.
Then the mast breaks and the forest floor assaults my face and chest. The legs keep driving with a will of their own, a program still running in the background. I can feel my bones rattle, nervous system sparkle and twitch from the impact.
This is what Lyle Alzado was made of.
Pure, elemental fury.
The earth had assaulted me with all the energy and focus of a defensive end on steroids.
Darkness descends momentarily, and my heart pegs redline, I’m on the chip and up against the rev-limiter. It hurts, I can’t breathe. Please, God, not the black.
Not again.
A child’s voice, distant yet near, floats into my mind, riding on the sound of a hawk’s screech.
“What’s wrong?”, an innocent question who’s answer lie in a place I did not know how to access. Her voice is soft, mild, and welcome.
I raise my head and open my eyes. I cannot make out her details. She is only another shadow among the taller, hers like a tiny dancing shrub. I wonder if I have ever truly seen the world.
And then—it comes. My legs erupt in twin columns of fire and the strange wail of a wounded creature overpowers my ears. I cannot tell where the sound is coming from; it envelops me with intense vibrations, a tsunami of aural chaos to accompany the hell of flames and broken glass dragging up and down my legs. I begin writhing and praying, struggling to breathe. The pain begins to pulsates in waves and I begin hiding in the troughs.
It stops.
I lay on the ground, trying to control my breathing, soaked with sweat.
My body is trembling, and weak. My vision has cleared, I can see.
Relief rolls over me.
“Are you hurt?”, the little wood-sprite says. I can see half her pale face from behind a massive tree stump.
I am amazed she is still here. I am not sure what to tell the child. I do not want her to leave yet.
Her presence is comforting. I am not alone. I am not mad.
“I was, yes,” I say in a voice destroyed only moments ago.
“Are you still hurt?”, she asks, persistent.
“I’m not sure,” I am terrified the fires and blades will return and my voice trembles. “I think I may be.”
Her face appears fully from behind the stump now, appraising me more fully. “I don’t see any blood. When papa was hurt there was lots of it.” Her face, framed by strawberry blonde locks, is very serious.
“Is your papa well now?”, I ask as I try to gently wiggle my toes. They move.
She smiles, but her eyes remain solemn. I guess her age at six going on thirty.
“Oh, yes, he is very well,” she says, crossing herself, “he is with God.”
“I am so sorry,” mentally wincing. The ankles check, mobile but stiff. One feels slightly swollen as if I may have rolled it during my zombie-walk.
Her brows wrinkle and she looks at me, suspicious. A small clump of moss clings precariously to her sun-dappled locks.
“For what, that he is well or that he is with God?”, crossing herself again.
“I am from somewhere far away, and we say things differently. I meant no offense,” I offer, trying to escape her cross-exam.
“Are you from the land of Porte? Mama has told me stories of such as you,” she stepped from behind the stump, showing her other hand now, holding a short tool. It is pointed appears to be bone, perhaps antler. “I will defend my honor.” She looks closer to thirty now than six, a child-warrior. I am beginning to worry that I cannot defend myself or outrun her. What kind of hell have I landed in that a grown man is menaced by children?
I push with my arms, attempting to gain my feet and stand. Panic is rising again, a sense of wrongness. As I straighten to my full height, lower back aching and weak, I hear the last triple-beat of feet and a black and white missile launches with a deep growl, colliding with my chest. I’m on my back now, struggling to breathe without moving, my amigdala putting me into a life-preserving freeze. My eyes, wide, are locked with the creature on my chest, it’s teeth holding my throat. Its breath reminds me of another time and place, an incongruous association. Canid, my parietal lobe volunteers helpfully, and very close.
“Steady, Peg. Hold.” A male tenor, from nearby. Afraid to swallow, saliva runs from the corners of my mouth, and small tears roll from the outer corners of my eyes, nesting in my ear canals. I hear steps nearing in the forest floor, a pointed object rests firmly just under my ribcage, under the dog’s sprawled legs.
“That’ll do, Peg,” the man commands. Peg dismounts my chest, begins circling us at a clip, silently, body and head held low.
The man surveys me, head to toe, at first critical, suspicious, then bewildered. The point stays firmly in place, a simple fire-hardened and sharpened stick. A primitive spear. His free hand scratches the back of his head, then begins stroking his beard, as brightly-colored as his woods-sprite daughter.
“You’re not from the city of Porte then, are you? No. No, you’re not. You’ve not the look of any I’ve ever seen in my short life. So who are ya, and what er ya doin’ in my woods?”. His eyes narrow, slight crow’s feet appear. Muscles pop from his forearms as his grip tightens on the spear.
“I am the Lord of this forest, and servant of the Most High. The good my people rests on my shoulders and I will be answered!”.
The point feels like it has broken skin.
I am speechless, mind frozen in feet of deep ice, with no hope of thawing before death pierces me.
“Papa King! King Papa!” the little strawberry sprite calls from behind her stump.
“She’s only six, she gets confused which comes first,” he says, and a brief look of tenderness breaks through storm clouds gathering in his face, then he arches his back to put the full force of his middle linebacker build behind the spear.
“M’lord King, stop, I beg you,” another voice, adult, feminine.
“He’s a Traveler, king Papa, Papa King! We have Traveler!”, cries the little strawberry sprite and bounces from her stump-blind to cling to the back of his leg.
The spear lifts and my hand darts to my wound. I feel a sting and wetness, but no deep and horrible hole, not like the one in my mind.
A woman I might charitably call handsome, with overly-strong features and a copious amount of rich auburn curls and a freckles so dense they nearly meet reaches the man who nearly skewered me moments ago. She rests a hand familiarly on his shoulder.
“Yes, yes, I am a Traveler,” I manage, shakily.
The Queen—she must be—fixes me with a look.
“It is true. You are a Traveler. But you lied when you claimed it.”
Now I am at a loss again.
Am I or not? Will it keep these Renaissance Fair freaks from killing me? Then I become lost in a tangle of thoughts and images, trying to understand what Renaissance Fair was and why it matters.
The Linebacker King bends over and stands me on my feet as if I am a child. My knees begin to buckle and I settle back to the carpet of fir needles. I notice tiny sticky spots on my hands. They smell of the essence of the forest. Pitch. Some of my nails are broken, knuckles bloody. Peg has long since quit circling, bored and has settled down for much-needed self-grooming.
King Singletary whistles and is answered by braying. In short order a larger donkey appears at a trot. I believe this is my ride. Before I can begin wondering about ‘lowrider’ the negotiations begin.
“Dogberry,” said the Forest King, addressing the donkey most solemnly, “will you do Us the most gracious favor of carrying this Traveler, who is weak and tired, coming from Beyond to the here and now-”At this the donkey brays and pushes his head against the mountain of muscle before him, trying to get his nose in the outer pocket of the King’s cloak. “If it is carrots are all you love,” the Queen interjects quietly, “then that’s you will receive.” Dogberry’s head drooped and he brays balefully, a soulful low lamentation.
“Excellent. Up you go, then.” And with that His Majesty hoists me up like a sack of potatoes and puts me on the flat back of the animal. I do not know if I have ever ridden any animal, let alone a donkey. The pace is leisurely and peaceful. In a short time I am warming; the sun from above is breaking through the forest canopy more frequently, and Dogberry’s body heat radiates from beneath me. I realize now how chilled I was. His Majesty L.T. begins walking alongside me, one hand steadying me from falling off. Sleep is claiming me. I am drunk with fatigue. DUI on a donkey? comes the thought, unbidden.
I don’t know—or care—what that means.
A black curtain descends, it is dark but for the wind through fir trees and an owl calling out. A saxophone wails out a dreamy tune, calling out over a walking bass line and snapping fingers. The tempo is languid, a casual walking pace. I feel myself rising and falling, rising and falling, riding a four-legged creature with axes for legs; handles down, heads up. The heads of the axes look keen as a surgeon’s scalpel. I am perched, precarious, in the center of the four blades which swing back and forth like pendulums on a short arc. I wrap my fingers in the mohawk of mane in an effort to keep my balance, but I’m failing, falling into an abyss of axehead-shaped teeth. In my mind’s eye a handsome older man with short, grey hair is laughing, at first gently, then increasingly it crescendos into a maniacal tirade of evil glee. His face fades until only his eyes remain. The teeth rend me to nothingness. It looks horrifying but the pain just isn’t there, it’s a sense of being disassembled, of being a disjointed being, lacking integration physically and between body and soul: integrity. The tiny white-hot ball of me that still is passes through the last of the teeth and drifts deep in the currents a byzantine blue ocean of peaceful waves and diffuse light, numb. The dreamy saxophone picks up it’s sultry melody over a walking bass line, fingers snaps keep time, if any time still exists.
I feel sand under my back, waves pushing me, expelling me from its womb. Light shines through a hazy filter. It is becoming uncomfortably warm and humid beneath the barrier blocking the light. A shadowy figure leans over and another by its side. The reach to part the curtain and deliver me to the light of reality and sanity—
“You are silly, Mr. Traveler,” I hear the strawberry woods-sprite say, and she giggles. I am on my back on a low mat, pleasantly soft, under blanket and sheet. She has pulled the sheet from my face and is struggling not to resume her laughter.
“You snored so loudly Dogberry talked back to you. He put his fuzzy head right in that window.” She gestured to a curtained opening in the wall.
“What did he say?”, I ask, a question I am more comfortable asking her. It seems silly, in the light of day. But children are delightful and I am feeling indulgent.
“Queen Mama blushed, and Papa King—King Papa, said I must never repeat those kinds of words.” She hides her mouth behind her hands and her eyes go wide and round in mock-horror. She giggles again, then erupts in uncontrollable laughter.
“I assure you, Sir Traveler, it was quite—colorful and . . .inventive. He has a sharp wit and no filter.” The Queen is perched on a stool nearby. Her smile is pleasant enough. Her eyes still hint at a certain guardedness.
I am beginning to notice a hint of wood smoke that is a pleasant layer to every scent. The sheets are of a coarse weave under my battered hands. The blanket is of similar material, stuffed with what feels like feathers. Every piece in the room is wood, and handcrafted. As in, made with tools that are themselves handmade. If this is some Renaissance Fair psyop, it runs multiple layers deep.
I am tired of these words in my mind that have no meaning. They should—they would, if I were in their contextual homeland, but here . . .
“My Lady,” I begin addressing the Queen, feeling like a ten year-old child in church play, “I am at a loss.” Out of bed, pacing, now. “I do not even know what I do not know. Words come to mind, words that sure don’t fit here, and they have no meaning in my mind, I can’t explain them. I don’t recognize anything. Sun, moon, stars, sure. Yes. All the things of nature.” I stop, and my hands tremble. Not knowing what to do, I collapse to my knees before her. The room feels wobbly, and my mind shows raw edges now.
“My Lady, help me.” I look at my hands, I dare not look at her. “This place is beautiful, and you have been most kind. But I can’t fit it in my head. It’s full of words with no meaning.”
“It is likely, dear Traveler,” she walks from the stool to gaze out the window, “you left a land devoid of meaning, and are brought—or sent—here to recover it.”
I dare, then, to look my Lady—she has become that, to me, in that moment. To look at her compassionate eyes.
“Tell me about Travellers, please. Have you met many others? Can I meet them? What is it—”
She stops me mid-speech with a simple look of her eyes. I am like a dog with no manners, I realize, and am ashamed. This place is so strange.
It terrifies me. It is dangerous, violent in potential, and yet I love it.
It calls to me.
She shook her head, and my heart fell.
“I have only and ever heard of them, child. But my hearing, and the telling, are true. In short, there have been others, never more than one. I do not know the why, God allows it for your good, as all hardships are.” I hide my gut response as best I can, it’s difficult. Is this a Bible Belt Ren-Fair? says the voice I’m beginning to dread more and more. It might as well be a foreign language, these terms and concepts. It’s making my head hurt. Literally.
God is not a thing in my life, I know this about myself. I make my own opportunities. I manage my risks. I leverage power. Some of these thoughts feel a little fuzzy, but they ring through as mine. This is the before. Before all this. Before I Traveled. I’m not sure how this new data point will fit in, or what a data point is, other than the fact they were once important to me. I feel it in my bones. I am in some kind of upside-down world and I must make the best of it until I wake up or find my way back to the Real, whatever that may be.
Meaning is what we—I—dictate it to be for my life. Nobody can define me, tell me what is what. I do that. I feel these thoughts and concepts like roots burning deep in the soil of my mind, as fire rages and razes the existential evidence of the world I knew and held in myself. All that is left in the wake of the superheated inferno, sucking the ashes of my memory skyward in a massive updraft threatening my very sense of self, is the conviction that I exist and am in control of my destiny.
Motion distracts me as a squirrel falls past the window the Queen had been standing in. I had the distinct impression he was laughing.
I realize I had been so deep in my own head I had tuned out everything around me. I look for the Queen, and see her in a corner of the room, setting at a rustic bureau. A crow is standing before her on top of the bureau. It looks very much as if he conveying meaning to the Queen, who is listening intently. She is even more pale than usual. The crow hops, and caws, and shakes his feathers, a full-body effort, when he seems done.
I am staring, I know, most impolitely.
“There has been a family tragedy. I must go to my Lord the King.”
Her face is stone and fire. Grief and vengeance. I take a knee, bow my head as she walks past me. It feels strangely right. She pauses to rest a motherly hand on my bowed head and is gone.
In the doorway appears the little wood sprite, bright as summer strawberries.
“I am Princess ‘Phina.” She curtsies neatly, and I give the best bow I can guess to do. Her smile is radiant.
“Queen Mama said to help you while she’s busy, but I think I need yours too.” Her luminescence dims . “Crow said a bad man killed Papa King’s—King Papa’s nephew. We should go to Chapel and pray for him. Come with me?”.
She holds out her hand. I feel strange waters around me dampening those fiery roots. “I am at your service, Princess.” I take her hand. “Lead the way.”
Cooool!!