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I Theta

θ

 Do not covet other words than thine,
 For you shall have them all in time.
 But take first the souls, as from a mine
 And teach them my wisdom here in rhyme.
 For I am the light bringer, and light bearer –
 The soul taker and world sharer.

Book of Lucifer Lines 91-96 The good Prometheus, my twin, Twined to rock and forced to pain. Though it was to another’s gain Eaten from without and from within. But I once escaped I was born anew, With new intent, and much to do.

Book of Lucifer Lines 133-138 Upon that world I shall lay that might Burned from above, both cold and hot That shall rob the faithful of their sight, And hit the face of waters like a shot. Forges burning bright like scattered sea, Armies of destruction released with glee. Book of Lucifer Lines 607-612

Long Count Date: 998.11.92

“Hermit, it is possible. Well, that will do for the time being.” The voice was melodious, with fluid lengthening of vowels and a rising and falling. It reminded her of the old tongue of the epics, that the rhapsodes used for reciting the long stories from long ago. She had attended a full recital of one of the more important ones, and had nearly fallen asleep, not out of boredom, but out of the blissfully fluid sound of the letters themselves, which became detached from meaning, and were, in the end, like notes rather than language. This voice had that sound to it. That made ones being awake more awake, and ones sleep more pleasant.

“Yes, you have been sent to me, March Angela, to have your name confirmed, your wisdom sharpened, and to be given those tools which you will need.” There was a pause. “I hope that is enough formalities for you, we have much to talk about, you and I.”

She exhaled a long breath, and felt as if she had passed through some kind of trial. She walked towards him, he turned around and began walking beside her.

“Tell me, do you want these dreams? And if so, why so, if not, why not?”

She drew a short breath in and delivered her half formed speech that she had started to put together.

“I want to know more than what is known, and have the sight, and use it well, for my own good, do what I will, save it harm another.”

“Ah.” Pause “A grey magician. And why, do you wish to stand betwixt and between, serving nothing but your own appetites?”

She halted. This was a question that she did not even think need to be answered. Didn’t everyone? Before she could stop herself, she said.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“There is self-interest, and there is, shall I call it, enlightened self-interest. Do no harm is a good maxim, but hardly the fountain of all wisdom, even for ones own gain. Tell me, what would happen if, to gain the sight, you had to bring unhappiness upon yourself, what if you had to suffer, or bear long years of loneliness.”

“All women are lonely, which is why we are willing to bear, even men, as company. So you aren’t hanging anything over me I don’t already have.”

They had reached the end of the globes at this point and were headed out into the dark, given light only by the purple lantern he carried, which was barely enough to the road by. The had also passed over what had, at the time, seem merely a sloping hill, but on the other side showed itself to be a much sharper drop. She realized that she had been going a little bit up hill all this time, and that this was a rill beyond it. She had never been here, and she could see the tangled shapes of trees, but planted in an orderly manner. They were not fruit trees, but taller and straighter, and they were descending down into them. It finally occurred to here that they were not the ironwood trees that were thin and commonly used for everything, but the dark wood, which was used for rich furniture. Teloikopolis sold some of this abroad, but mainly, it was used, and prized, here and in Helos.

As they continued down the hill, he continued. “So you are willing to pay a price for the sight, or are you saying that you feel you have paid a price?”

“I don’t think I have paid much of a price, if by that you mean the kinds of trials that stories speak of. But I am willing.” She paused, realizing she was burbling, and about herself. She stopped, tried to gather her thoughts under her, and “stand up straight” in her mind as well as her walking.

“What must be done, will be done.”

“But are you willing to do it?”

“Yes. If not wanting, at least willing.”

It was at this point that he began using the staff to slow his pace down, but it landed silently each time. When she looked at him, the motion of it distracted her eye, and when she didn’t she could feel it moving about. He ducked down, and too late she felt the rustle of bat wings past her, and she too, ducked down. There were several dozen, and they were on their way to the beach to eat the small flies that rose out of the sand. Their flight was unlike that of birds, fluttering like heavy fast butterflies. They stood up after the bats had passed, and resumed walking, they entered under the canopy of trees, and the stars disappeared from view. There was, off in the distance, a slight sound of burbling water, like a brook – not the rushing sound something wider, nor the lapping sound of a river.

“Then it is settled that you are to go, even if it is not clearly to your own gain.” He said this without irony.

“What gain can there be?”

“Risk. True gain comes from risk, where the issue is in doubt, and some decide it before it is decided. Of course, the wealthy think they ‘risk’, but most of the true risk is not done for coin. By risking, you face the way the cosmos works, and see if your judgment aligns with its judgment. If you are right or wrong, you at least have a better idea of where you stand, and how to draw closer to it.”

This did not make one bit of sense to Marchangela. So she pressed.

“Understanding of what you say escapes me.”

He merely nodded. “Risk is how you understand the future. But to do that, you must also understand the past. For example, I imagine that Amalthea said you were one of the taken.”

“Yes, though I have no idea what that meant.”

The were now down at the bottom of the rill, and a stone bridge carried them over a thin stream, whose bubbling was now like the chatter of small birds and animals. She bent over the railing of the bridge and looked down. In the river there were glowing points, and around these gathered fish. Occasionally there would be a fast snapping movement, and one of the fish – outlined as a dark shape – would disappear. The light was from a trapfish.

Light can be a trap. She noted this, and determined not to be swallowed up by false light from the Hermit. Or Magus. Or whoever this was.

“What is the first thing you consciously remember?”

Marchangela wove backwards through the oldest scroll in her mind, and then reached the first part of it saying.

“When I was 5 annae, it is the day my mother sat me down and started to teach me to write. The day before, apparently, looked at writing, told my younger sister some nonsense about what it said. My mother is looking at me and saying: ‘If you are going to pretend to knowledge, you have to earn it.”

“So you remember remembering the day before. But don’t remember it.”

Marchangela stopped, and pressured herself to recall, but she knew she never could.

“No, nothing before then.”

“So you had memories, words, actions, but not consciousness.”

The began walking up the incline, but the stream followed, however thinly, beside the road, it flowed over rocks, she could here drops, as if there were small fells for it to pass over, dropping from ledge to ledge.

“Yes.”

“Did you ever wonder where that came from?”

“Isn’t it the sign my spirit had come?”

“Yes, but from where?”

Marchangela had wondered this from time to time, and had read the stories, but did not know.

The Magus continued. “Your psyche came from someone else, it was taken, and then released and it found you.”

Marchangela, “You mean someone else died so that I could live?”

“No, I mean your psyche came from someone else, who may have lived on afterwards. It was taken.”

“From whom, can you tell?”

The Magus turned to her and said: “No, because it did not come from here.”

“How can you tell?”

“I will show you that when we get to where I live and work.”

Marchangela was very interested in this. If he could show her.

He then continued. “To know the present and the future means understanding the past. Have you ever thought why every tradition, in its oldest texts, talks about ‘the moon’?”

“More and more, I realized that ‘tide’ must be something associated with it. Many think that Lucifer will create a moon in the last days.”

“Tides there are, just not in Teloikopolis, if you had listened more carefully in Geography you would know that. But leave aside that, there are other details, such as what an eclipse would be. Why would people know about a world under a moon, if it has not been made?”

“Prophecy?”

“People look for events, and foretell that which is of interest to them. Why would details, like eclipses and periods called ‘months’ and ‘phases’ be of interest to them?”

“To help focus for prophecy?”

“Then why put these in books meant for everyone, shouldn’t a good runa, keep their secrets?”

Marchangela found that persuasive, good seers always kept their methods quiet, to be taught only to those who might have the gift, or who could help give the gift.

“So what do you think it means?” Marchangela asked pointedly, with a heavy emphasis on the word "you".

“It means that where psyches are taken from has a moon. And they remember living under the moon, and write it down. Later texts don’t come from people who feel the lack of living under a moon, and therefore do not worry as much about it. Your fortune telling cards have a moon card.”

“Yes, they do. The also have a card for the end of the world. Which we call Foretelling and which others call ‘judgment’. That’s from the idea that the moon begins the ending, and the moment where all foretelling ends completes it.”

He let that pass. The were nearly at the top of the rill, and the road had gotten steep.

“You sound ready.”

“Well, sound perhaps, but feel, that’s not so clear.”

“I assume that Amalthea has explained that these things unfold.”

“She doesn’t seem to know much about what is foretold.”

It was that the reached, she could just see it in the orb light, a basin which caught the stream as it jetted out from a fountain, she could not see the actual opening, merely a large scallop shell which caught the water and overflowed. He turned to her, and with bright intent in his dark eyes he looked straight into her, and without melody or variation in tone said:

“That, is because nothing is ever foretold.”