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Authors: Storm Constantine
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it would still be some time before
she was ready to fulfil the destiny I had planned for her. Some
part of me was resigned to the fact that our designs might yet
fail; some part of me did not care. I was content; the sickness
could not touch me, for contentment was its bane, I’m sure. Beth
though, I worried for. He, like dead Rephaim, was one of those
bright blooms that grow quickly flaccid on the vine, eaten by decay
in an evening’s rain. I thought about the diminished throng of
Favariel Eshahim; it seemed incomprehensible to me that such a
decline could be allowed to occur. Perhaps it signalled that the
time of the eloim was drawing to a close; we had lived upon the
world too long. Perhaps the sickness of despair was an inevitable
symptom of this wasting, and no soulscaper, however well suited to
our needs, could ever save us. I knew this was an attitude I would
have to shed quickly, because it was not one that could be
presented to the eloim elders.
Notice had
come to us - or more accurately had been waiting for us - that a
gathering of the throngs had been called for by the Parzupheim, the
most ancient and exalted of our kind. They were anxious to discover
what Beth and I had achieved in Lansaal and Taparak. Our father,
Metatron, had been ominously silent since our return. I had
expected us to be summoned to the family stronghold in the eastern
atelier court even before we shed our travelling cloaks, but no
word had come from him. His ignorance could only mean he
disapproved of our journey; we had not, after all, consulted with
him about it before we left Sacramante. I knew he would be present
at the gathering, and wondered whether we could expect public
criticism from him.
I sighed into
the vines. It was time I stopped worrying about greater issues, and
applied myself to my personal well being. I needed to organise
myself, emerge from the seclusion of the atelier courts and seek
employment; I needed to perform. What I needed more precisely, of
course, was the adulation I commanded as my fee. As soon as the
throng gathering was over, I would see about securing a part in a
theatrical production. The house of Zamzummim might be a good place
to start looking. Indolence was ejected from my body by a wild
spear of energy; I wanted to leap up immediately and hurry to Oriel
Zamzummim’s court. The feeling was to be savoured, but not indulged
just yet. First, I would wait here for my brother in the
conservatory. Then I would lead him upstairs to bathe away the
stains of florid Leda, and make him pure again. After that, we
would sleep in each other’s arms. Tomorrow I would resume the
normal pattern of my life.
Section Four
Gimel
‘ Subtle he needs
must be, who could seduce angels…’
Paradise Lost,
Book IX
Beth and I walked
lazily through the cool, evening air, on our way to the gathering
of throngs; two of our house stewards following discretely behind.
Sacramante was in a summer flush, the night thick with heavy
perfume squeezed from the tight flesh of the rose-vines along the
walls. We paused to listen to a travelling trovadero ,
keening in one of the piazzas. I was recognised there and presented
with a corymbus bloom. In truth, I was glad to be back.
The Castile Edificia
had been built centuries back, on the apex of a gentle hill, whose
toes gripped the slow-moving river to the east. It was a pale,
many-towered building that dominated the skyline of the atelier
courts, constructed of pale stone and hugged by flowering creepers.
Like ourselves, others had chosen to take the walk that evening
and, on the approach way, we came upon a silken clutch of
Hyperachii, strolling arm in arm ahead of us. I was friendly with
one of the males, Jevanael, and released my grip on Beth - who was
trembling with nerves - to go and walk beside him.
‘Avirzah’e
Tartaruchi just drove past,’ he told me, eyes aglow. The
Tartaruchis were, perhaps, the most infamous of eloim throngs, and
undeniably the most compelling. They had a
she was ready to fulfil the destiny I had planned for her. Some
part of me was resigned to the fact that our designs might yet
fail; some part of me did not care. I was content; the sickness
could not touch me, for contentment was its bane, I’m sure. Beth
though, I worried for. He, like dead Rephaim, was one of those
bright blooms that grow quickly flaccid on the vine, eaten by decay
in an evening’s rain. I thought about the diminished throng of
Favariel Eshahim; it seemed incomprehensible to me that such a
decline could be allowed to occur. Perhaps it signalled that the
time of the eloim was drawing to a close; we had lived upon the
world too long. Perhaps the sickness of despair was an inevitable
symptom of this wasting, and no soulscaper, however well suited to
our needs, could ever save us. I knew this was an attitude I would
have to shed quickly, because it was not one that could be
presented to the eloim elders.
Notice had
come to us - or more accurately had been waiting for us - that a
gathering of the throngs had been called for by the Parzupheim, the
most ancient and exalted of our kind. They were anxious to discover
what Beth and I had achieved in Lansaal and Taparak. Our father,
Metatron, had been ominously silent since our return. I had
expected us to be summoned to the family stronghold in the eastern
atelier court even before we shed our travelling cloaks, but no
word had come from him. His ignorance could only mean he
disapproved of our journey; we had not, after all, consulted with
him about it before we left Sacramante. I knew he would be present
at the gathering, and wondered whether we could expect public
criticism from him.
I sighed into
the vines. It was time I stopped worrying about greater issues, and
applied myself to my personal well being. I needed to organise
myself, emerge from the seclusion of the atelier courts and seek
employment; I needed to perform. What I needed more precisely, of
course, was the adulation I commanded as my fee. As soon as the
throng gathering was over, I would see about securing a part in a
theatrical production. The house of Zamzummim might be a good place
to start looking. Indolence was ejected from my body by a wild
spear of energy; I wanted to leap up immediately and hurry to Oriel
Zamzummim’s court. The feeling was to be savoured, but not indulged
just yet. First, I would wait here for my brother in the
conservatory. Then I would lead him upstairs to bathe away the
stains of florid Leda, and make him pure again. After that, we
would sleep in each other’s arms. Tomorrow I would resume the
normal pattern of my life.
Section Four
Gimel
‘ Subtle he needs
must be, who could seduce angels…’
Paradise Lost,
Book IX
Beth and I walked
lazily through the cool, evening air, on our way to the gathering
of throngs; two of our house stewards following discretely behind.
Sacramante was in a summer flush, the night thick with heavy
perfume squeezed from the tight flesh of the rose-vines along the
walls. We paused to listen to a travelling trovadero ,
keening in one of the piazzas. I was recognised there and presented
with a corymbus bloom. In truth, I was glad to be back.
The Castile Edificia
had been built centuries back, on the apex of a gentle hill, whose
toes gripped the slow-moving river to the east. It was a pale,
many-towered building that dominated the skyline of the atelier
courts, constructed of pale stone and hugged by flowering creepers.
Like ourselves, others had chosen to take the walk that evening
and, on the approach way, we came upon a silken clutch of
Hyperachii, strolling arm in arm ahead of us. I was friendly with
one of the males, Jevanael, and released my grip on Beth - who was
trembling with nerves - to go and walk beside him.
‘Avirzah’e
Tartaruchi just drove past,’ he told me, eyes aglow. The
Tartaruchis were, perhaps, the most infamous of eloim throngs, and
undeniably the most compelling. They had a
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