and gave her drawing his intense concentration.
‘What is this?’ he asked, charmingly. ‘Ah, such a beautiful drawing! You are making art as we play? You make your friend look too serious, no? I like the stuffed stag. Very realistic. You have beauty and talent, yes?’
Bruno continued in this way in a friendly voice just as Lao was contemplating a difficult shot. It was a ricochet blue into the middle pocket from an awkward angle. Lao frowned. It seemed the attention Bruno was paying Mistletoe was working.
But Bruno did not know that between some people exists the original Enochian language, the ability to speak to each other in spirit. He did not know what had been forged between these two people, forged through time, gnosis, and their mutual commitment to the highest things in life.
Bruno did not know that Mistletoe saw through him and thought it shabby that he was playing Iago to Lao’s concentration.
She did something curious. She included Bruno in the sketch, placed him in a net of rough lines, and on his back she heaped rocks and around him she drew the dark women of mythology, Lilith, the lamia, the medusa.
Bruno, noticing that Lao was fighting his distraction, leant towards Mistletoe again.
‘A beautiful artist and a beautiful woman…’ he murmured.
But when he looked at the drawing again, he froze.
Mistletoe, in a soft voice, said, ‘I think a lesson is called for.’
Lao may or may not have heard. But he smiled. Reaching for an obscure evil in him, and converting it into skill, the ricochet was executed, and the ball returned to its home. The rest of the shots followed from an amplified clarity of spirit. The balls sank into the pockets smoothly.
He returned the cue to its stand. He shook Bruno’s hand, collected his winnings and, with a nod to Mistletoe, went past the crowd, to the outer chamber of the pub.
On his way out the barman called him over.
‘You are like the man in the drinking competition,’ he said.
Lao shrugged. The barman touched him affectionately on the shoulder.
‘This is a strange town,’ he said confidentially.
‘Is it safe?’ Lao asked.
‘Yes, of course. But interesting things happen here.’
‘Like what?’
‘People see things.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘Would you like to drink from a tankard to celebrate?’
‘Another time, perhaps.’
The barman gave him a knowing smile. It half occurred to Lao that the town was enchanted, but he shook the thought from his mind, and went out into the dark.
10
Not long afterwards Mistletoe joined him. Not one word was said about the game.
They wandered in silence into the midsummer night and made their way back up the lane. They passed the quaint buildings that were like giant dolls’ houses and they thought about fairy tales, trolls, and wizards guarding treasures. Dreams floated past them in the dark.
Reality can be altered by the mind, Lao thought. All it takes is the right magic, the right attitude. Whoever knows this secret never fails.
They turned into the road and saw in the dark ahead of them a playground. The seesaw was tilted heavenward, and the swing twisted lightly. Mistletoe noticed how curious the playground was when there were no children and when only the night played there, along with silent forms.
In the distance they saw a bridge, faintly lit. It looked as if it went from darkness to nowhere. They walked towards it, without purpose, drawn by the fairy tales lingering in the air. Beyond were lights that changed, that summoned.
The darkness was alive with intangible forms. They came to a little woodland and Lao stopped walking. There were ideas that had come to him during the game that he wanted to think about. He couldn’t quite remember what they were.
He stood still and gazed at the stars in the sky. They seemed to move. He wanted to go beyond thought. He wanted things to settle in him and find their place. He also wanted to let go of old ways of being.
But Mistletoe wanted the dark.
‘What is this?’ he asked, charmingly. ‘Ah, such a beautiful drawing! You are making art as we play? You make your friend look too serious, no? I like the stuffed stag. Very realistic. You have beauty and talent, yes?’
Bruno continued in this way in a friendly voice just as Lao was contemplating a difficult shot. It was a ricochet blue into the middle pocket from an awkward angle. Lao frowned. It seemed the attention Bruno was paying Mistletoe was working.
But Bruno did not know that between some people exists the original Enochian language, the ability to speak to each other in spirit. He did not know what had been forged between these two people, forged through time, gnosis, and their mutual commitment to the highest things in life.
Bruno did not know that Mistletoe saw through him and thought it shabby that he was playing Iago to Lao’s concentration.
She did something curious. She included Bruno in the sketch, placed him in a net of rough lines, and on his back she heaped rocks and around him she drew the dark women of mythology, Lilith, the lamia, the medusa.
Bruno, noticing that Lao was fighting his distraction, leant towards Mistletoe again.
‘A beautiful artist and a beautiful woman…’ he murmured.
But when he looked at the drawing again, he froze.
Mistletoe, in a soft voice, said, ‘I think a lesson is called for.’
Lao may or may not have heard. But he smiled. Reaching for an obscure evil in him, and converting it into skill, the ricochet was executed, and the ball returned to its home. The rest of the shots followed from an amplified clarity of spirit. The balls sank into the pockets smoothly.
He returned the cue to its stand. He shook Bruno’s hand, collected his winnings and, with a nod to Mistletoe, went past the crowd, to the outer chamber of the pub.
On his way out the barman called him over.
‘You are like the man in the drinking competition,’ he said.
Lao shrugged. The barman touched him affectionately on the shoulder.
‘This is a strange town,’ he said confidentially.
‘Is it safe?’ Lao asked.
‘Yes, of course. But interesting things happen here.’
‘Like what?’
‘People see things.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘Would you like to drink from a tankard to celebrate?’
‘Another time, perhaps.’
The barman gave him a knowing smile. It half occurred to Lao that the town was enchanted, but he shook the thought from his mind, and went out into the dark.
10
Not long afterwards Mistletoe joined him. Not one word was said about the game.
They wandered in silence into the midsummer night and made their way back up the lane. They passed the quaint buildings that were like giant dolls’ houses and they thought about fairy tales, trolls, and wizards guarding treasures. Dreams floated past them in the dark.
Reality can be altered by the mind, Lao thought. All it takes is the right magic, the right attitude. Whoever knows this secret never fails.
They turned into the road and saw in the dark ahead of them a playground. The seesaw was tilted heavenward, and the swing twisted lightly. Mistletoe noticed how curious the playground was when there were no children and when only the night played there, along with silent forms.
In the distance they saw a bridge, faintly lit. It looked as if it went from darkness to nowhere. They walked towards it, without purpose, drawn by the fairy tales lingering in the air. Beyond were lights that changed, that summoned.
The darkness was alive with intangible forms. They came to a little woodland and Lao stopped walking. There were ideas that had come to him during the game that he wanted to think about. He couldn’t quite remember what they were.
He stood still and gazed at the stars in the sky. They seemed to move. He wanted to go beyond thought. He wanted things to settle in him and find their place. He also wanted to let go of old ways of being.
But Mistletoe wanted the dark.
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