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100%

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry with tags , , , , on February 24, 2012 by javedbabar

BBC is a global brand, thought Ram, so this BBC10X must be a good product. His friend Amir always gave him good stuff. But printing was misaligned on one side of the box, which was itself a poor fit for the contents. He’d heard that private corporations were putting heavy pressure on BBC funding. They said that state-funded broadcasters had an unfair advantage and stifled healthy competition. Was cheaper packaging the BBC’s way of saving money?

Installation was straightforward – you just plugged it into your computer. The instructions recommended using your laptop rather than your smartphone, whose screen was too small. If you used the latter then expect reduced results. For a big brain you needed a big screen. A plasma TV or screen projector was even better.

The software self-loaded and started immediately. A dark graphic of a human brain began sparking red in various locations. These red sections lifted up and were brought together at the front of the brain. Their combined total area was much smaller than expected. A graphic appeared saying “1%”, and then, “Only 1% of your brain is used at any moment!”

Is that all, thought Ram?

The sparking expanded and came together again; its combined area once more smaller than expected. A graphic said, “10%”, and then, “Only 10% of your brain is ever used!”

That’s it, thought Ram?

Then the whole brain sparked like a coal that had become a firework. A graphic appeared saying, “100%”, and then, “With BBC10X you can access 100% of your brainpower!” There was a disclaimer saying, “BBC10X can only multiply your brainpower 10X. 100% target is conditional on user having 10% current usage. For 5% usage, maximum brainpower will be 50%.”

A gallery of “Successful Users,” showed portraits of Albert Einstein, Thomas Edison, Sir Isaac Newton, Buddha, Jesus Christ, and Lao Tzu. Then another disclaimer saying, “These geniuses all used advanced brain training methods of their time. BBC10X is the modern equivalent, but has only been available since 2010.”

Ram noticed that the “Successful Users” were scientific or spiritual geniuses; people whose notions had changed the world. Is that how they did it – by using 100% of their brainpower?

Three selection screens required completion. The first was a choice between “Religion” and “Science”. Ram thought about this for a while. Both were paths to knowledge of a sort – science to testable, provable knowledge, and religion to knowledge inherent in faith. Both sources were trustworthy if you believed what they had to offer was worthwhile. Ram was drawn towards mystical experience over rational experimentation. He chose “Religion”.

A quote appeared saying, “Credo ut Intelligam: I believe in order to understand.”

The second screen was a choice between “Introvert” and “Extravert”. This was a tough one, for Ram liked to spend much time alone, but also enjoyed laughing and joking at social gatherings. He was by nature a friendly fellow, but if he didn’t have quiet time alone, he felt his life was one of pointless activity, never alone with deep thoughts. He liked being both but had to choose, so clicked “Introvert”.

A quote appeared saying, “Solitude is essential to man.”

The third screen was a choice between “Reason” and “Passion”. This was probably about being a philosopher versus a poet. He’d never liked philosophy – endless navel-gazing – so he chose “Passion”.

A quote appeared saying “Nothing great in the world has ever been accomplished without passion.”

It was time to begin the process. The exercises were simple initially – just matching words and numbers. They got faster and harder, and moved onto colours, shapes, and sounds, which became faster and harder, and began to include smells and tastes. Ram was immersed fully in the process. He didn’t stop to think how he was performing smell and taste tasks through the keyboard with his fingers. There followed purely mental tasks. Objects appeared and disappeared on screen; he was somehow receiving and sending thoughts. All of his senses were united. He was aware of a medical condition called Synaesthesia, where people “smelt” sounds, and “tasted” colours – but that was mixing pairs of senses, not all of them combined. Ram felt that he knew everything, all at once, without need to either ask or wonder. His brain had expanded to its full human potential – which included the instincts of many lower animals: our ancestors; and the intuition of higher beings: our descendents. Once you had reached this plane there was no returning to the realm of ordinary mortals.

However there was one final choice for him to make within his soul, now with full awareness. Having witnessed the unlimited possibility of the universe, did he wish to become its Supreme Enjoyer; an eternal hedonist in a world of light? Or having also acknowledged the ultimate pointlessness of existence, did he wish to declare himself a nihilist in a world of darkness, and become an Extinguished Soul?

There was really no rush though. He had eternity to choose.

Brain Box China, makers of BBC10X, were unhappy with their new product launch. It was their highest performance gadget ever, and they thought that it would sell really well. But not one customer had recommended it to their friends, or become a repeat buyer. Trying to pass themselves off as the real BBC clearly hadn’t worked. They’d better sell off their remaining units and develop something else.

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Another Day

Posted in Alternative Energy, Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, Unknown with tags , , on February 18, 2012 by javedbabar

Was it morning already? wondered Marcus. God, it seemed like he had only just gone to bed. Was it something to do with yesterday? What a rotten day! The break up of yet another relationship. “What is wrong with me?” he said to himself. “Why don’t they last?”

Still, it was nice to sleep alone again. There was no grunting or snoring, no hogging the duvet, no rolling around in the middle of the night, no huffs and puffs, sudden arguments, or crying. Relationships were hard work. And besides the obvious – bill and rent sharing, occasional laughter, and regular sex – he wasn’t too sure what the benefits were. You put a lot in, and you got out – exactly what?

Yesterday’s conversation went something like this:

Marcus: “How was your day, honey?”

Squeeze X: “Why should you care, idiot?”

Marcus: “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

Squeeze X: “Well it was worse than yesterday, and better than tomorrow, asshole.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so cheerless, love.”

Squeeze X: “Well what do you suggest, you donkey?”

Marcus: “Don’t be so mean; it doesn’t suit you, beautiful.”

Squeeze X: “Fuck off and get out of my life forever, you total dickhead.”

Who could understand women? thought Marcus. Maybe he should put an ad in the paper to form a male support group. Maybe start Fight Club in Lucerne? Or maybe just continue to focus on his brain training. There was no girl now to send his waves astray.

Marcus got up and thumped across the wooden floor. He splashed his face, eyes, and nose with warm water, and did some gargles. The splashing water was comforting and refreshing, and put him in a new state of mind. Like tides washing over him periodically, he felt the long motions of Delta waves.

He pulled on a T-shirt and sauntered to the kitchen, where he filled his old-fashioned kettle from the repurposed 18.9L gas station bottles he used to bring home bubbling spring water. The kettle boiled slowly; its bubbles appearing gently, and then ascending; moving faster than the long tides earlier; now slow Theta waves.

He mixed half a cup of oatmeal with a cup of water and a cup of milk, added a spoon of sugar and a pinch of salt, and turned up the heat. His signature porridge took a while to heat up, but soon got busy. Within two minutes it was bubbling like crazy, making loud pops, and throwing out droplets of searing mush. A steamy fatness filled the air. His relaxed state of mind responded and was fully awake, in flowing Alpha waves.

Marcus followed his usual routine, but this morning felt different. Things were somehow easier and lighter. Waiting for his porridge to cool, Marcus performed his regular stretching routine: a mix of athletics and kung fu warm-ups. Their easy movements required concentration, producing Beta waves.

He wondered if this mental state could have caused his girlfriend-till-yesterday to respond differently today. Here was the rerun:

Marcus: “How was your day, honey?”

Squeeze X: “Oh, it was alright. Why do you ask?”

Marcus: “Because I love you, sweetheart.”

Squeeze X: “But it made me so sad to spend the whole day away from you.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so cheerless, love.”

Squeeze X: “Sorry, but compared to you, my warrior-prince, every man is a warty toad.”

Marcus: “Don’t be so mean; it doesn’t suit you, beautiful.”

Squeeze X: “Come and kiss me right now, my heart burns for you.”

He felt a strange power developing; not instant power, but latent power. Charges were coupling and building, like a storm arising. While twisting his body, reaching his right hand across to his left side, the hand didn’t stop and kept going. Then his left hand, reaching across to his right side, also didn’t stop and kept going. His hips kept circling clockwise, even when their direction reversed. When his arms rotated like propellers, they didn’t stop either, even when their directions reversed. His shoulders kept moving in opposite directions, and his head rotating both ways. He felt like a circus performer, spinning hoops and plates. There was a little too much going on for his liking; crazy chaos all around; a jumbled whirlpool spinning outwards, with centripetal force, in an endless flowing. These Gamma waves were too much for Marcus to handle.

Whether he slowed the motions, or they slowed of themselves, he couldn’t say. They acquired gentler rhythms; he became restful; though they continued spinning somewhere beyond. These were his natural Mu waves.

Marcus had run a full Wave Test this morning; the first one in weeks. He had moved from slow Delta, through drowsy Theta, relaxed Alpha, active Beta, into crazy Gamma, and appreciated the background testing of Mu waves.

His relaxed solo state this morning was a blessing. It allowed him awareness of his full cycle of rhythmic and transient activity. There were fewer biological artifacts – her bothering his eyes, heart, and muscles in bed – and environmental artifacts – interference from her laptop, cell phone, and iPod. Now his girlfriend was gone, his brain once more exerted centralized control over his body’s organs.

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Long Shower

Posted in Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 16, 2012 by javedbabar

Adam loved the shower. It was so gentle and warmly refreshing, so very comfortable, so wonderful! How he wished it would never end.

He couldn’t stay there forever though; he had to get to work. But when he tried to turn off the water, the knob got stuck and wouldn’t budge. Water kept gushing forth. Maybe his hands were soapy and he needed a better grip. He rinsed them under the running water, and tried again, but still no luck. Damn! The washer must have broken; he’d better replace it.

He tried to get out but the door was stuck; it didn’t even jolt or shudder. Was it his new soap, jamming everything up? He should have known better than to get it on special offer from the gas station, at a dollar for twelve bars.

So the door was stuck and the shower was pouring. What to do? As long as the drain didn’t block, he could just stay there. There’s that saying about lemons and lemonade. Give it five more minutes, he thought, and something would loosen up for sure. Till then he may as well enjoy it. After five minutes he tried again, but the knob and door were both still stuck. Let’s wait another five minutes. He would be late for work, but what could he do?

Adam had been in the shower for fifteen minutes now – a pretty long stretch. His girlfriend took longer, especially when he was in there with her. He started to feel tired. He noticed his hands were wrinkled. He never knew why this happened; was a person’s skin expanding, or were they dehydrating? He looked at his feet, which were also wrinkled. The water spread across his skull like ants; poured off his ears and nose like a shoddy drain-leak; ran along his shoulders and arms like a river; then dripped like jewels from his fingers.

If he was dehydrating, he’d better drink some. He tilted back his head and opened his mouth wide. Let the water of life pour in. The water tickled his tongue initially, then his tonsils. It made him laugh and he gagged and spurted. He shook his head. What on earth was he doing? He was having the equivalent of water torture, and was grinning like a fool. But what else could he do?

Adam sat cross-legged with no option but to endure the torture. He covered his head with his hands for a while, but his arms became numb, and eventually dropped into his lap. Now it was water torture proper, with drops falling on his head continuously.

It wasn’t one drop at a time like Chinese Water Torture – where the irregular dripping drove you mad, like a Pavlovian dog – or the Medieval European version – where the dripping was regular, and you began to fear a hollow forming in your skull. He had thought it may feel like waterboarding – where a cloth is placed over your mouth and water poured onto it continuously, giving the feeling of drowning – or maybe Houdini’s water torture cell – where your feet are bound as you are lowered into a glass tank filled with water, from which you must escape. He knew that forced ingestion, or competitive drinking of too much water, led to water poisoning – liquid flooding cells by osmosis, causing them to swell and burst. Other watery ways to die were  dunking – typically used for witches, where they were immersed in a vat of water repeatedly until they drowned or confessed (in which case they were immolated) – or an alternative was to be left bound underwater; if you floated you were guilty, and if you sank you were innocent (but drowned). Not to forget Chinese water dungeons – where prisoners are kept neck-deep in filthy, stinking water for days, so their bodies fill with festering sores – or Dutch ones – where a cellar quickly fills with water and the victim is given a hand pump to try to save themselves – or the Nazi house of terror – where you stand on a metal stool in a cell filled with ice water, until you tire and fall into it.

Adam however was at home, enjoying a steaming shower. So all in all, his situation wasn’t that bad. He was however getting hungry. What could he eat? He noticed that all this steaming water was creating the beginnings of a jungle in the shower corners. It looked like green slime rather than shoots, but may be a relative of watercress, or seaweed; and it was good to eat your greens – full of iron. “And what would Sir like to order?” he asked himself. “Oh, the house greens today, I think.” “Very good Sir.”

He should engage in mental activity to keep his mind fresh, and started counting as many drops as he could manage. He reached 1,001 and decided that was enough. It may be better to use his fingers to draw pictures on the steamed-up panels. He drew a man in a box with squiggly streams running all around him.

He squirted a bottle of gel into the shower base, and was richly enrobed by mango and vanilla, “Mmmm.” Then he awakened to eucalyptus and tea tree, “Ooh.” Next he was intoxicated by chocolate mocha rum raisin butter candy, “Aah, that feels so good.”

The substantial slime build up offered another opportunity. He shaped it into a human figure. A companion. This wasn’t the end for him at all! He would make a new race of water people! They mated successfully, and just as their tiny amphibious offspring escaped down the drain, there was a pounding somewhere. “Escape, my children,” he cried. “Go quickly now! Before the monster comes!”

His girlfriend burst into the bathroom in her dressing gown. “How much time exactly, Mister, are you going to spend in the shower today? It’s getting longer every day. And I’ve told you before; don’t do that in there, it’s disgusting. It’s hardly going to make me change my mind. You’re way too strange for me; I can’t handle your bizarre fantasies. I know you said that no longer having sex was like torture for you – but you’ll have to deal with it.”

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Circulation

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry with tags , , on February 13, 2012 by javedbabar

Daved liked company when climbing, but today he was alone. He’d planned the ascent as a two-day trip, though was prepared for four days in case of nasty weather; it could easily turn. He’d heard of someone going up and down in a day, but they must have been either a superhero or a liar. It was 9,000 feet of mountain, almost three kilometres up!

Mt. Alba stood at the near end of the Valley as a sentinel over Lucerne Village. 100 km away – at the far end of the Valley – was its darker twin Mt. Negra, which wasn’t visible from the Village because of a bend in the Valley. Daved wondered if it would be visible from Mt. Alba’s summit.

It was a tougher climb than expected. Clear cut patches had “grown back” as dense bush. They’d be okay in another 200 years, but calling this “sustainable” – are you kidding? Thank God for game tracks.

The rock was steady going with some pits of scree. Daved picked through them methodically. The snow near the summit made higher sections easier to navigate, and had a magnificent crunching sound. As Daved neared the top, he heard a miss-timed shuffling-scrunching. Was it his footsteps, echoing high above? It continued for too long afterwards though. He’d been pleased to see evidence of wildlife earlier, but now was much less so. He climbed the final section and saw the beast ahead. It looked like a man walking in circles. Daved rubbed his eyes. What on earth was he doing?

The man didn’t look at Daved or say hello or stop. He wore vintage climbing gear, a beaver fur cap, and boots that were clearly not fit for this purpose. He seemed to have walked out of – or should we say “be walking around in” – the 1920’s.

“Hello there!” Daved called out.

The man slowed momentarily, looked across at him and squinted. He gave a friendly wave, but otherwise continued as before, which Daved found annoying. He had braved a 9,000 ft mountain alone and met a fellow climber at the top. They should be sharing hearty slaps on the back, and whisky from their mickeys; but the guy had virtually ignored him.

Fortunately Daved was a reasonable fellow. He thought, maybe this guy has come here for solitude; he’s left the crazy world below to clear his head, and doesn’t want company. Maybe he’s practising walking meditation, or just keeping warm. But I have to engage him somehow; it is only good manners.

When Daved approached the man’s face lit up. He was about sixty, with a bushy grey moustache and piercing blue eyes. He seemed very friendly, which didn’t square with his ambivalence before. But he didn’t stop walking, so if Daved wished to converse, he had no option but to join him.

“So nice of you to come up, Sir,” said the man. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a visitor. What brings you to these parts? And will you be staying here long?”

“It’s always been there, right before my eyes,” said Daved, feeling at ease immediately with this possibly crazy guy. “But I’d never thought of climbing it before. I’m not sure why. It seemed more a backdrop than something real.”

“Few people notice what is square before them,” said the man. “But the day comes when they do.”

“What brought you up here?” said Daved. It was a deliberately broad question. He wasn’t sure whether to mention his antique climbing gear, and his walking in circles.

“I used to live a linear life,” said the man. “Always going from here to there, from there to somewhere else, and from somewhere else to who knows where? Climbing this mountain was no different. I was fiercely competitive when young, and the first time I climbed, I made it up and down in a day.” Daved’s face changed; was this the man he had heard about? He continued, “But then I realized how pointless that was. Why rush to the grave? We’re all going there soon enough, so why not take our time till then – taste the water, smell the forest, feel the rock, crunch the snow? So now I take my time. The world is different when you pay attention. It is yours.”

The ice was broken; Daved couldn’t help asking, “But why are you walking in circles?”

“Why are we walking in circles?” said the man. “You’re walking with me.”

“Ok, why are we walking in circles?”

“Do you know the meaning of the circle?” said the man.

“Of course,” said Daved, feeling insulted. “Who doesn’t? It symbolizes natural cycles; it means wholeness and completeness.”

“Yes it does. And that’s why we’re walking in circles. We’re making the world.”

“What do you mean, ‘making the world’?”

The man stopped suddenly. Daved did too. The man said, “Ok, do you want to try walking the other way? See what happens?” Daved nodded and they reversed their direction.

At the far end of the Valley – 100 km away – Daved saw the dark top of Mt. Negra glow orange, about to burst. He saw thunderclouds building along the Valley, filled with black rain. Snow slid to the edge of the icecap, about to rush down as an avalanche. Lightning caused a tree to ignite, its flames spreading to others. A vast landslide fell into the river, causing it to dam, building up a huge lake, ready to burst. A light rumble signalled earthquakes brewing.

“Stop!” shouted Daved. “What’s going on?”

“My friend, you have a choice with every step you take. You can either make, or unmake, the world. Which way shall we walk now?”

“The other way!” Daved shouted.

The man turned around and Daved joined him. They had plenty to talk about. He always liked company when walking.

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Tea-Jay

Posted in Global Travel, Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 11, 2012 by javedbabar

Natasha waited in line at the Transparent Temple – the nickname for their state-of-the-art community centre. Damn, she thought, there’s almost two hundred people here already; I wish I’d come earlier. Still, she remained hopeful.

“What do you think of our chances?” said the boy. He was being friendly, but also chatting her up, she thought. He appeared somewhat nerdy, but didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. There was no need yet to pull out her pepper spray.

“Pretty good,” said Natasha. “But I wish they were better.”

“I came at six am, and there was hardly a soul here,” said the boy. “So I went for a…”

“A coffee!” Natasha burst out laughing. “That’s what I did too. How stupid. I was only gone half an hour, and came back to this. By the way, I’m Natasha.”

“Hi, I’m Bobby. Have you attended a Tea Party before?” The queue eased a little, and they moved forward two feet.

“No, but I’ve been dying to go for ages. I missed the one in the City, and the one in Strattus. I’m so glad they decided to do an extra date here.”

Tea Parties began in England last year, and were now a global phenomenon. Their Anglo-Indian founder had very fond memories of clubbing from his youth, but now he’d hit forty, could no longer take the pace. He decided his future lay in being Teetotal: totally devoted to tea.

There are two origin stories for tea. The first concerns the Chinese Emperor Shen Nung. He was sitting beneath a Camellia Sinensis tree while his servant boiled water, a common practice to purify it. A leaf from the tree blew into the water, creating a pleasing aroma.  Shen Nung tried the brew and declared it an auspicious drink. The second story is that of Indian sage Bodhidharma, who spread Buddhism to China. He practiced very fierce austerities, believing in the power of ceaseless meditation and prayer. He fell asleep one day, and was so disgusted with himself that he cut off his own eyelids, and threw them away. From these holy relics the first tea bush sprouted.

The founder of Tea Parties was inspired by this story, and adoped the name of the sage. The new Bodhidharma decided there was a higher way to have fun, to connect with others, to avoid the toxins of alcohol and drugs, and negative effects of dehydration and sleep deprivation. The Way was all day Tea Parties.

“One of my friends has gone crazy,” said Bobby. “He’s taken a year’s sabbatical from his law firm, and attended Tea Parties all over the world. He started in England, where he had the most amazing luck. A girl he met in an arty bar knew one of the Tea-Jays. She got him into the Tea Party at Buckingham Palace! It was a classy affair; Will and Kate were there.”

“Wow!” said Natasha. “Now that’s what I call networking. Where else did he go?”

“The English Party was prim and proper. There was Earl Grey tea in bone china cups, followed by ballroom dancing. He wanted to try another country so went to India. He must have turned on the charm, because he got invited to attend a Tea Party at the Taj Mahal. They sat in rose-gardens and drank spicy chai from small clay cups, and then engaged in bhangra dancing, before smashing them. Next he went to Russia, and believe it or not, made it to the Kremlin. They mixed teas from a giant samovar, added vodka, and did Cossack-dancing. He particularly enjoyed that one. He went on to China, Korea, and Japan. In Japan they…”

Bobby cut the conversation when the line jumped forward. Within a few minutes he and Natasha were at the front of the queue. The bouncers waved them in. “Well aren’t you going to search me?” said Bobby. Natasha was surprised; most people would have gladly been spared the indignity of a body search. However you attempt to civilize it, it is, essentially, hairy dimwits groping you. But Bobby insisted upon it. And now that this protocol was established, bouncers searched Natasha and everyone else.

“What was that about?” said Natasha. “Because of you my pepper spray and mickey of rum got confiscated. No one else seemed bothered.”

“I’m sorry to upset you. But the essence of a Tea Party is purity. We can’t have people bringing in additives. That would ruin the whole effect.” Natasha shook her head. Maybe he was a creep after all – and now she was defenceless. She decided to distance herself from Bobby. She smiled and said, “See you later.”

The Tea Party wasn’t starting for another hour yet, but the Tea-Jay was already at his blending desk. And it wasn’t just some local lad with an ipod. Tea-Jays undertook a one-year, full-time apprenticeship. Internships in Ottawa – or at Google, Facebook, or Goldman Sachs – were child’s play compared to acceptance onto the Tea-Jay program. It was said that twelve people had been trained by Bodhidharma, of whom only six graduated. Their identities were never revealed. Today’s Tea-Jay wore a V for Vendetta mask. It was a little creepy.

Natasha seated herself on a cushion in half-lotus position. There was an even split of girls and guys, maybe 250 people in all.

The lights were dimmed, and soft chants filled the hall. The first cup was served. It was a delicate brew.

Chants became stronger. The second cup was served. It had a fresh flavour.

Light beats kicked in. The third cup was served. It had a hint of cinnamon.

Beats became harder. The fourth cup was served. It tasted of maple and chocolate.

A counter melody came in. The fifth cup was served. Its taste was of peppermint, and vanilla, and clotted cream.

The melody ascended. The sixth cup was served. It held many flavours – toffee, whisky, and yeast; melons, quail, and burnt caramel.

The melody expanded, and filled the room. The seventh cup was served. It was the agony of leaves unfolding, giving every part of themselves. It did not contain the previous mistakes of starting at the bottom – with bohea leaves, and working your way up to flowery orange pekoe. Instead you started at the bud, and worked downwards, encompassing all possible flavours. There were no broken leaves that had been crushed, torn and curled; only whole leaves that were withered and rolled by Masters. High rainfall and high elevation were there. Black, White, Oolong, Green, and Fermented teas. This final cup was brewed at the highest temperature to extract the large complex phenolic molecules. These active substances were shared with all the Tea Lovers present here now. They spoke of love, and beauty, and poetry; of hope, faith, and courage; of sadness and despair; and of dreams coming true, and spending forever immersed in bliss.

Bodhidharma didn’t mind filling in for his Tea-Jays in a crisis, and he enjoyed queuing up with the crowd. It gave him a feel for the energy present, plus helped to preserve his anonymity when entering and leaving. He preferred being known as Bobby rather than Bodhidharma. He smiled behind the blending desk and thought, “Another successful Brewing; Complete Infusion.” He wondered if they even knew that they were all on their feet, dancing and chanting, “Camellia Sinensis!”

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Drawing

Posted in Conceptual Art, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , on February 5, 2012 by javedbabar

“Let’s do drawing,” said Naomi.

“Sure, Sweetie,” said Bobby. “What would you like to draw?”

“Everything!”

“Well, we’ve got all day,” he said; his sister wouldn’t be picking her up till six. “Let’s see what we can do. I’ve got some paper in my printer; we can use that, and…”

“No! Not on paper,” said Naomi emphatically. “You have to draw in a proper book. Then it’s a proper drawing. Do you have a book?”

“Will this do?” he said, producing a hardback notebook with black cover.

“That’s perfect!” said Naomi, and found a good page.

“And let me get some pens, I’m not sure what…”

“I’ve got special pencils,” said Naomi. “I always use them for drawing. You can use them too.” She produced a dozen fat, coloured pencils with natural wood casings, their colour only indicated by the lead.

“Thank you,” said Bobby. “Shall we start?”

Naomi nodded, and said, “I’ll draw me, and you draw you.” She started with a circle for a head, and triangle-dress below; stick arms and legs were followed by pig-tails, hands, and shoes. Bobby drew himself: tall and thin, with red hair and beard. When he’d finished, he looked over Naomi’s drawing. She had added more details to herself. She now had facial features, folds and buttons on her dress, and some elbow and knee details. Much better than he’d expected.

“That’s great!” said Bobby. “How do I look?”

“You look ok,” said Naomi. “Let’s draw some other things.” She drew a star and sunflowers. He drew a tree and snake.

“Do you mind if I go and do a few things?” said Bobby. It wasn’t urgent, just checking his email and Facebook, but his habit was unbreakable.

“Ok,” she said. “But don’t be too long. You have to help me with drawing.”

When he came back after twenty minutes he was amazed. She had filled the page with thick jungle. The first tree, sunflowers, and snake were enclosed within it, with the lone star shining above. It was surprisingly good for a six-year-old.

“You took too long,” she said. “I had to do all the drawing myself.”

“I’m sorry, Naomi, there was something important,” he lied. “But I’m back now. What shall we do?”

“Let’s do colouring. Us first. I’ll do me, and you do you.” She filled in her dress bright blue, added shading in the creases, and brightened up the front and sides. She made her skin a realistic milky-golden, and her hair brown-black. She got the hues just right. Bobby thought, she’s got some talent, this one, and began to colour himself. He didn’t quite get it right though. His skin was the colour of potatoes, and his hair and beard seemed fire-engine accessories. He wasn’t pleased with his purple shirt either, which he’d wanted to make black; and was he really wearing turquoise trousers?

Naomi giggled. “You look funny!” she said. “Do you prefer that you, or this you?”

“I think I like this me,” said Bobby, tapping his chest.

“I like the other one!” said Naomi. “Shall I help you finish him?” Bobby nodded. “Ok, you can finish the other things.”

Naomi selected her pencils and got busy. Bobby didn’t want to waste too much time on this. He quickly coloured the star, sunflowers, snake, and tree. He started feeling drowsy. He’d forgotten how tiring it was playing with kids. They seemed to have unlimited energy and imagination, and were happy just being themselves. It was good being a kid! And it was tiring being an adult, with or without them. Even more tiring than usual today; what was going on?

Bobby realized that he was somewhere else. Where was the cabin? Where was Naomi? Where was he? All he could see was jungle everywhere. It was not green, but white – a ghost jungle. He looked at his hands, his arms, his legs – they were coloured naturally – but everything around him was plain.

Leaves rustled in the distance. He wondered whether to hide but then thought, “what from?” and stayed where he was. Leaves quivered close by, and a moment later, Naomi burst out of them. “Hey, you’re here too, Uncle Bobby! Isn’t this fun?”

“Where are we, Naomi?” Bobby was dazzled, and disorientated.

“We’re in the drawing of course.”

“What – actually in the drawing?”

“Yes, that’s what happens when you colour it nicely,” said Naomi. “Didn’t your parents ever take you to art galleries?”

“Sure they did. But only into the galleries. Not into the paintings.” Bobby couldn’t believe he was even having this conversation.

“Didn’t you ever go into the paintings?” Bobby shook his head. “Oh, I only mean into them a little bit, to look around. Only the painter can go into them properly, and see what they really are. But see – You came into my drawing! I know I helped you, but now you’re here. Let me find some other people.” She skipped back through the leaves, but then poked her head out and said, “Just wait here; I won’t be too long.”

Bobby sat on a tree stump – was there logging in drawings, he wondered? – trying to make sense of his situation. He felt cool darkness and turned around. Naomi’s sunflowers towered over him, their heads filled with teeth rather than seeds – looking like octopus mouths – walking hulkily towards him. Bobby ran away from them into a forest clearing. High above, Naomi’s star began pulsing and screeching. It sent down red death rays. Bobby ran faster and further, till he reached a giant tree, and became tangled in its strange branches. He sensed movement around him, a slithering and hissing. It was his own snake about to attack him in his own tree. He shouted, “Help me!”

There was a rustling nearby. Naomi popped out of the jungle. “Oh, sorry,” she said. “I should have given you some pencils. It’s hard the first time, till you get used to it. Then if you don’t like something, you just rub it out and redraw it. But don’t rush it this time; remember to colour it in nicely.”

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Compass

Posted in Mystical Experience, Sacred Geometry, World Myths with tags , , on February 2, 2012 by javedbabar

It was a bad situation. A crossroads of life. Peter had gone out that morning with good intentions, but things had not gone to plan. He’d found a beautiful Douglas Fir, thirty feet high with a full fat taper. Its green-blue needles gave a sweet, citrus-like smell when crushed. He was also pleased that this vibrant Fir sat among a group of dead ones, making it easier to pull out. Just perfect, he’d thought.

Peter had decided on a big tree this year so brought his chainsaw; his Nissan Frontier was ready to drag the tree to his cabin, 200 metres back along the trail. Imagine the tree hooked up to eight strings of fairy lights; it would look magical from the road.

But cutting it down proved tricky. A hidden knot sent his chainsaw astray, and as the tree came down unexpectedly, it also pulled down others. The dead trees around it were no longer a bonus; they were a burden, because they sat squarely across Peter’s body. This wasn’t the plan at all.

At least he hadn’t broken any limbs. He tried moving the trees sitting upon his body but they wouldn’t budge. They were way too tangled and heavy. He wondered if he could squeeze himself out. He wriggled about a fraction, but only succeeded in receiving sharp jabs to his ribs and thighs. Ah! Maybe he could make a few inches of crawl space. He scraped snow with his fingertips, but realized that the branches went right through it.

Feeling faint, he rested awhile. He must recover and think. He saw sky, trees, snow, and… animal tracks! He tried to look away but couldn’t. A wide paw, five round pads, and claw points – Grizzly bear. A triangular pad, four asymmetric pads and claw points – gray wolf. Smaller versions of the same – coyote. A little mountain and four widely-spaced, drop-shaped pads – cougar. Uh-oh.

Peter decided to focus. Like animals’ made snow prints, maybe his mind could imprint a solution. He should focus on something. What was the clearest symbol he knew? The first thing that came to mind was a cross. This surprised him, as he wasn’t religious, but it seemed to make sense.

First, the cross was an ancient symbol, a Pagan sign pre-dating Christianity – in the same way that a Christmas tree did. It represented the union of opposites – the horizontal earth, and vertical sky – at whose junction we existed. Second, it was a co-ordinate – a meeting point of longitude and latitude – at which he now lay helplessly. Third, it was his framework for decision-making. There were four people he thought of when faced with difficult choices – his Brother, his Friend, his Mother, and his Niece – each guiding him somehow. What would they do?

He realized there was an extreme choice. He could use the stalled chainsaw manually to saw off one of his own limbs, and slip out from beneath this tangle of dead trees. It was a grisly business, but he had heard such stories; sometimes the limbs were reattached successfully. Which limb should it be?

Peter thought, what would my Brother do? He was incredibly creative, and had one morning taken two scrap metal sheets and some plywood off-cuts, and built a working windmill. He had used this to power a small dynamo, which ran a vinyl turntable, playing dance music. That was how he had woken Peter on his sixteenth birthday. But his brother was at heart a practical person, and would lose the limb that he used least often – his left leg.

Peter thought, what would my Friend do? He hated to see others in pain, and had dropped out of university to care for a schizophrenic fellow student. He had spent that year never leaving her side; there to help her through every suicidal and psychotic delusion, till she reached the other side. To get back on his feet, the Friend would cut off his left arm, and walk out of here alive.

Peter thought, what would my Mother do? She was deeply religious, and believed that God would never burden any of his creatures with more than they could bear. Her solution to everything was ceaseless prayer. She had prayed for many people who had suffered from cancer, heart attacks, and strokes, and all had recovered. Her intercession for orphans, the poor, and the hungry, had resulted in miraculous occurrences. His Mother would cut off her right leg, so that her hands were still able to clasp together in prayer.

Peter thought, what would my Niece do? She was the most joyful being he had ever encountered – so full of fun. When Peter’s wife had left him, it was his niece that called him daily to play “I Spy” and “Carbuncle” – a game he never properly understood, which involved him – her uncle – visiting zoos in Rolls Royce cars and freeing the animals. She was an adorable creature, who always wanted to play. God forbid – but if she had to – she would use her right hand to cut itself off – with her wild imagination, maybe even convincing herself it was “fun”.

Peter realized that none of these were ideal choices, and they may not even work. He felt that one limb less may ease his passage, but there was no way to be sure. But it was better than doing nothing, awaiting grizzly bear, gray wolf, coyote, or cougar. Before he chose which limb to cut, he focussed again. He put himself at the centre of the cross and thought himself outwards – up to his Brother, down to his Friend, left to his Mother, and across to his Niece. Thank you for everything, he said. Then he reached, with his fingertips, for the chainsaw.

He heard people calling his name, and dogs barking close by. As Peter had thought himself outwards – along the arms of the cross – his loved ones had sensed his distress, and thought themselves inwards, towards its centre where he lay. They were with him here now. A dog ran up and licked his face: Up and Down, then Left and Across.

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Where To?

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience with tags , , on February 1, 2012 by javedbabar

Mr. Wise waited to take the body from the decedent’s residence to the cemetery. They had kept him waiting for half an hour now, but he was in no hurry. This was not a job for those in a rush.

He looked over his black Rolls Royce Phantom VI; till recently the “Number One State Car” of Queen Elizabeth II. Its long, dark, flowing lines, and commanding grill; its coil springs in front, leaf springs in rear, for unparalleled smoothness of ride; it’s twin SU carburettors and four-speed automatic gearing; its walnut and gilt fittings by fifth-generation English coach builders; its appearance unchanged for three decades of production. There was no vehicle more fitting for a person’s final journey; a journey led by The Spirit of Ecstasy statue, leaning forward, trailed by billowing cloth-wings.

“That’s a nice car,” said a small boy. “Did you put the windows in yourself?”

“Thank you son, do you mean the rear glazing?” Mr. Wise approved of the boys smart black suit.

“Yes, a Rolls Royce doesn’t come like that, does it?”

“You are correct. The donor vehicle is converted by specialists. They extend the body, raise the roof, and enlarge the glazed area.” He could tell him more, but you shouldn’t chat too much to children at funerals.

“And what’s that hatch at the back for?”

He’s a curious one, thought Mr. Wise. “We can fit another coffin in there if necessary. But we don’t use it often. Right now there’s just the spare wheel and my spare uniform.”

“What kind of engine does it have? About six litres like a truck?”

“You are correct. It is a 6.2 litre V8 engine, built in the Crewe factory, in 1968.” He couldn’t help his chest swelling as he said this. He was enjoying talking with this – what was he? – eight year old.

“What did you do before this?” said the boy.

“I worked in the Rolls Royce factory for forty years. I took early retirement when they computerized the systems, and retrained as a Funeral Director. Then I came here to be near my grandchildren. They’re…”

The son of the decedent rushed out. He completely ignored the small boy, and interrupted Mr. Wise. “Some relatives got carried away with crying,” he said. “I think they’re done now. I didn’t fill in the form you sent me, I’ve been too busy. But you know the way to the cemetery don’t you?”

“Sir, you haven’t told me to which cemetery we are taking the gentleman.” The decedent was head of a large family business; “a no-nonsense guy, who didn’t suffer fools gladly,” Mr. Wise had heard. Who knew what he was like under the skin though? You never could tell. But his son was clearly a rascal.

“Lucerne Cemetery,” said the son. “About twenty kilometres up the Valley. Just keep going straight. Only a fool would miss it.” He rushed back in, and quickly came out again. “Did you bring someone to walk in front of the procession?”

“Sir, I am sorry, no. You did not request this service, and I did not wish to presume…”

The decedent’s son glared and stormed off.

The small boy said, “He seemed quite angry. Is he upset about his father?”

“I’m sure he is, son. I should have insisted on him completing the details. That way I would have known the requirements. But he never returned my calls. Never mind.”

“I could do it,” said the boy.

“Do what?” said Mr. Wise.

“Walk in front of the procession. Look, I’ve got a nice black suit.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“Let me check with the head of the family. I’ll see what he says.” The small boy ran off and returned five minutes later. “He says that’s a grand idea. Do you have a top hat I could use?”

“Not one that would fit you?” The boy insisted, so Mr. Wise retrieved his top hat from the hatch. Miraculously, it fitted the small boy. The man-sized cane was also usable.

They loaded the body, and Mr. Wise pulled out of the driveway onto the Valley Road. He took great care as it was very misty. The small boy walked ahead. He started awkwardly, but soon hit his stride. Did he have tails on his coat before, thought Mr. Wise? He must have.

The mist became thick and Mr. Wise lost sight of the other cars. Unbelievable, he thought; they were only a few metres behind but invisible to him. The small boy, however, was not deterred. He just kept walking. In fact, he sped up. How fast was he going? Mr. Wise checked his speedometer – over five miles per hour. He wondered how he could walk so fast. When they’d travelled about one kilometre, Mr. Wise decided it was time for him to stop. The small boy seemed to sense this, and walked back to the vehicle.

He knocked on Mr. Wise’s window and asked him to play some music. “This is highly unusual,” said Mr. Wise, and refused. But the boy looked so deeply sad that he changed his mind and switched on the stereo. It was his grandson’s CD. He recalled being told that it was a British dance band fronted by a bald black man.

The music blared out more loudly than he’d wanted. The little boy ran ahead, and continued leading the procession. He began stepping forward and back – which under the circumstances, wasn’t ideal – in time to the music. Then he threw his arms out theatrically. He spun around twice, and tripped around his cane like Fred Astaire. He began leaping ahead as if he were a D-Day soldier, then hoed like a third-world farmer. He body-popped – is that what it was called? – and twisted, and acted like a robot. The mist flashed repeatedly. He whirled around performing Capoeira – like Mr. Wise had once seen in Rio –

which eased into Sufi whirling – like in Konya. He did a Moonwalk, a Scottish jig, and some Irish dancing. Then he threw his hat high in the air, caught it on his head and bowed.

Mr. Wise was dazzled and clapped, which wasn’t wise when driving. He saw a group of vehicles parked ahead on the road, and recognized the car of the decedent’s son. Through the mist he saw the cemetery’s entrance, and pulled in.

The decedent’s son rushed out, irate. “Where have you been?” he shouted. “Where did you go? We’ve been waiting an hour!”

“I am sorry, Sir,” said Mr. Wise. “We must have become separated by the mist.”

“If my father were here, he would be so angry with you, you fool!”

No he wouldn’t, thought Mr. Wise. I think he rather enjoyed his journey. Just before they’d reached the cemetery, the small boy had approached the Rolls Royce and said, “Thank you, I’d always wanted to do that,” and disappeared.

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Mirror

Posted in Classic Sci-Fi, Infinite City, Mystical Experience with tags , , on January 29, 2012 by javedbabar

The fundraiser was much better than expected. Sam had been bullied into attending by the Library Director; every time he went to get a Sci-Fi book, she emerged from her office to ask if he’d got his ticket yet. But he wasn’t ready to commit. He may be somewhere else; somewhere better; who knew? But eventually under pressure he’d handed over twenty bucks.

It was the best investment he’d ever made. He won first prize in the raffle – a night in the Wells Suite at the Regal Hotel. He’d seen that place when visiting the City, but had never imagined staying there. It was the grandest place in town. The only snag was that it had to be this Tuesday. Why couldn’t it be next week, he thought, or last week?

On Tuesday his girlfriend was working late and said she’d join him later, so he checked in alone. The receptionist said, “Welcome, Sir. It is a privilege to have you stay with us. We hear that you attended a charitable event, and won first prize. Indeed good deeds are always rewarded. We hope that you will enjoy our humble lodgings. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask.”

The 20th floor penthouse was amazing. It was hard to describe the decor – maybe “retro modern”. Chandeliers brightened its blue-striped walls. The reception room contained a large green table, sofas, and footstools. The bedroom had a four-poster bed, all draped in blue. The bathroom held golden fittings and a claw-foot bath. If only his girlfriend would hurry up – they could make good use of the bed and bath; though he doubted things would get as steamy as they had with some other girls. Maybe he should have invited one of them.

Sam hit the mini-bar – the library was paying after all – and he smoked a joint. His girlfriend texted, saying, “So sorry, love. It’s an emergency. I can’t get away. Will call you later.”

“Bitch,” he said to himself. For some reason he didn’t believe her. Once he’d dreamed of making her his wife, but recently changed his mind. It just wasn’t like it used to be. Their endless laughter and passion were gone, and were unlikely to return. So why bother?

Sam noticed a locked internal door. Had they forgotten to open a room? He called downstairs. The formal receptionist appeared, sniffed the air and said, “Have you been smoking Sir? You do know that this is a non-smoking hotel?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Sam.

“Very good, Sir. I will take your word for it. Many wouldn’t.”

“I would like you to open this door.”

“Sir, are you sure?”

“You said I shouldn’t hesitate to ask.”

The receptionist unlocked the door and left. It was a spacious windowless room, with a dark desk at its centre. There were bookshelves filled with science texts and holy books. The only other notable item was a full-size mirror with an ornate golden frame. Sam peered into the mirror, cut some smiles, and left the room.

He couldn’t believe it at first. Was he dreaming or drunk?

The room’s decor was completely different. Gone were the blue-striped walls and green furniture. The whole room was white. It had a few sleek items of furniture – more loungers than sofas – and there was no obvious source of light, but everything was glowing. As he moved forward, the light increased around him, as if an aura. A wall-sized screen came alive slowly, showing waves lapping a beach at dawn. Sam peered outside, and saw flying cars. He was so surprised that it took a while to realize that his movements were jerky; he was stumbling along. Then he noticed his hands were wrinkled and knotted with rope-veins, and his feet were like clubs, which shunted rather than flowed. What had happened to him? He tried to return to the study, but the door had locked.

“Knock! Knock!” He wasn’t sure whether to answer the front door. “Knock! Knock!” But what else could he do? There stood the receptionist. He spoke in a too-loud voice. “I thought I’d check up on you, Sir. Is all well?”

“You can see that it isn’t.” Sam’s voice was different. It held a rasp. “What has happened to me?”

“I’m afraid that only you know that, Sir.”

Smug bastard, thought Sam. “Can you let me back into the study?”

“Of course, Sir.” He unlocked the door and left.

Sam sat on the edge of the desk and tried to comprehend the situation. Then he thought he’d better see himself, and looked in the mirror again. He looked just like he should; still forty years old. The futuristic world must have been a delusion. He really should drink less. He left the room.

The room was different again. There was a huge orange wall-hanging, filled with circles, and a fat yellow sofa beneath. The carpet held mixed yellow and orange squares. There was a boxy brown television with many chrome knobs. Sam heard the bells of trolley cars outside. Again he was stumbling along, but in a different way. He tensed his face, and looked down at his hands. They were chubby and small-fingered. Child’s hands. He turned instinctively, but the study door was locked once more. And just at that moment, “Knock! Knock!” He toddled over to the suite door, pawed and eventually opened it.

The receptionist smiled in a patronising way. “Sir, is all well?”

“Nooo. It bad. O-pen door?” He sounded so cute, even to himself.

The receptionist unlocked the door and left.

Sam went straight to the mirror. He looked unchanged; still forty. He decided to leave the hotel immediately. Sure, he’d taken some crazy trips before, but nothing like this. This was way too weird. But when he tried to leave the study, he found that he couldn’t. However much he walked towards the door, it never got any closer. The desk was always before him, and the bookshelves to the right. But the door remained far away. He was stuck in the mirror with no future or past; no fantasy or memory. Just all the time in the world to reflect upon the present.

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Invisible Horses

Posted in Lucerne Village, Mystical Experience, Unknown with tags , , , on January 28, 2012 by javedbabar

Ben used to hear the horses outside his bedroom window. They snorted with surprise and delight, and the earth would shake as they tore across the field. He didn’t see them much in daytime, but at night he heard their strange language of frothy laughs and hoof clicks. He didn’t know much about animals, but the horses seemed happy here. They were rescued horses; who knew what horrors they had endured? No longer whipped at a circus, choked in a mine, or stuck in a filthy basement. Now a field in the Lucerne Valley – surrounded by forests, rivers, mountains, and glaciers – was their home.

But a beautiful location attracts attention. The owner made the mistake of mentioning to a real estate agent at a Christmas cocktail party that she was thinking of selling. The agent had “motivated” buyers on his books already, and the listing attracted many more. The bidding war was won by an Australian couple who wanted the land but not the horses. So the horses disappeared with the previous owners – but to where was unclear. Thankfully Ben, the tenant, could stay in his cabin.

The field outside Ben’s window was soon leased to a farmer. It was ploughed and planted – initially with clover, next year with alfalfa, and then there would be spuds. Ben got used to the silent field outside.

“Did you hear that?” he said to his girlfriend, visiting from the City.

“What’s that, love?” she whispered, moving her head slightly towards him.

“I heard the sound of running.”

“Well go join ‘em, Road Runner, I’m staying in bed.” Then she added a sleepy, “Neep-neep.”

“No, not a person,” said Ben. “A horse. I heard a horse running.”

“I thought the horses had gone, love.” He loved how she always continued conversations, however tired she was. She was especially sweet when half-asleep.

“They have,” he said. “That’s why it’s strange. There aren’t any horses there.”

Ben pushed himself out of bed and went to the window. The moon was almost full. The tight rows of the field shone silver, like a mountain Zen garden. But there was nothing to contemplate but invisible horses.

Another night, Ben heard the horses again. This time their hoof clicks were more pronounced, and echoed along the road. “Can you hear them?” he said to his girlfriend. She liked getting out of the City, and was visiting again.

“Go ride ‘em cowboy,” she said in a manner so drawn out, it became a lament.

Ben threw on his dressing gown and ran outside. He was right! A dozen horses were ambling along the road. They gathered around his neighbour’s magnolia tree, tearing off petals. Some fell like big shining teeth. Ben recognized these horses – they were the wild ones from Lilly, which grazed freely on reserve land. But he had never seen them in the Meadows before – only causing mayhem on reserve roads. He watched them wander, and sometimes canter, up the road, moonlight gleaming off their glossy backs, seeming unexpected lone waves. The next day he heard that they were rounded up, and finally put in paddocks.

Once while cooking, a little drunk, Ben left a bunch of beet tops on a fencepost. He forgot that the horses were no longer there. But in the morning the tops were gone. He wondered if the neighbour’s cow had somehow gotten to them. Would she now produce red milk?

Another day there were muddy hoof prints around the field, but it had rained plenty, so their shapes were hard to define. Large patches of clover had been grazed. Ben wondered if this was by migrating deer.

As well as hoof clicks, there were other sounds. There were long blows, like greetings; vibrating snorts, as if sensing danger; a sort of snickering, like sharing a joke; a loud whinny to attract attention; a squeal of surprise; or a scream of aggression. It must be the wind carrying these sounds, thought Ben, from stables way up the road.

The neighbour’s dogs were always barking. One night they howled, and after that only whimpered and cowered. Had they been scared by a bear?

Ben spoke of these strange occurrences to an Old Cowboy he knew. The Cowboy said that he would come over one night, make a fire, cook some rice and beans with bacon, sip whisky, and watch. “There is more to horses than you’ll ever know,” he said. “Tell me when your girlfriend’s visiting. We can show her something special. Mind you, I’m not sayin’ you don’t already.”

When Ben’s girlfriend next came, they joined the Cowboy around the campfire. He was making lots of food. “Why so much?” asked Ben.

“You’ll see,” he said evasively.

Ben wondered if they would be feeding the invisible horses. When four pickups arrived, he realized they were feeding cowboys. They ate and drank and sang all night. The campfire talk was pretty rich, and Ben’s girlfriend said she was going to bed. What a waste of time this has all been, thought Ben, and followed her in.

“You’ll miss the show,” said the Old Cowboy, slurred and smiling.

“Well, why don’t you wake us up for it?” said his girlfriend.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

There was a dark tapping on the window, blended with light thundering. Ben and his girlfriend went outside.

“Look,” said the Cowboy, pointing to the sky.

Subtle shapes slipped across the heavens. Within these moving patches, the stars shone more brightly, as if cut out of the sky. Ben saw that there were many of these patches, and as they drew together, their thundering became intense, and neighs and whinnies echoed through darkness bejewelled. Brilliant stars glittered at the front of each surging patch. Ben gazed in wonder at these leaping constellations.

“Those horses hadn’t finished their healing yet,” said the Cowboy. “Their souls were stuck here; they couldn’t leave. We stroked them with the Old Songs and sent them on their way.”

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